


An Education

by Papillonn



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Smut, professor!tom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2312858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonn/pseuds/Papillonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom becomes infatuated with one of his students...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trying something new! I am not sure how long this one will be, but this one will be very smutty.

He’s licking his lips again. It’s too easy to forget not to, even when he’s in a room full of nearly two hundred of his pupils. The moment she walks into the room, the earth shatters and he remembers _everything_ …every one of her small moans, and desperate pleas for him to fuck her.

Well, at least how he _imagines_ she might.

That's the image that floats through his head, night after night as his hand grips his cock, gasping for air as he reaches his completion, whispering her name in a sharp hiss,

_“Madeline,”_

Naturally she is oblivious to his lust. She should be, afterall. He is her professor, and she is a graduate student, on her way to achieving her dreams. In all of his years teaching, he’s never had a student quite like Madeline Oakley. She’s brilliant, funny and entirely too charismatic, easily charming the other professors in her program into a puddle of goo. She’s not malicious about it either, and that’s why he is so desperate to have her. She has no clue how alluring and seductive she can be.

Unlike many of his other students, she doesn’t adorn herself in low cut tops, and short skirts. She doesn’t wear dresses that hardly cover her bottom. In fact, whenever he sees her, she is usually wearing some form of knit leggings and a jumper of some sort. She looks cozy and he imagines what it would be like to cuddle with her after a hard fucking.

A cough sputters through his lips and he mindlessly reaches out for the bottled water he’s brought from his office. It’s late, and his lecture is dragging on. The students are disengaged, the majority tapping away on their mobile phones. He has half a mind to send them all packing.

But he doesn’t.

No, not when Madeline’s eyes are so fixated on the slides that he leafs through. Every once in a while, she scribbles furiously in her notebook, annotating something that he’s mentioned. She’s passionate about history and art. He sees her blush with excitement when he mentions his vast travels. He desperately wants her to raise her hand and add something to the mindless dribble that the rest of the populace inputs, but she never does. No. She wouldn’t be heard among the rest of his overly eager students.

He switches the slide over and begins to explain the origins of the piece on the projector. He’s trapped in his head though, imagining what it would feeling like to have her sit astride his lap on her little desk chair, and ride him until they were both lost in their pleasure. He wants _all_ of Madeline’s pleasure. He wants her kisses and all of her affection. He _needs_ her. He knows that it is morally incorrect to desire her so badly, but he’s surpassed caring. Madeline is his only coherent thought at night when he goes home and lies in his empty bed. He can only imagine what it might feel like to lace his hands through her dark brown hair and gently ease her mouth onto his cock. He would watch through hooded lids as she lost herself to the taste of him, and beg him to take her…

His mind flitters back to the room and the students that are all starting to pack their things. He sighs impatiently and turns the projector off, indicating that he is done. He dares to flick his gaze to the third row of the hall where his little distraction is seated. She is busily packing her things, always eager to exit the hall and prevent the both of them from being along. A part of him wonders if the clever girl realizes how deep his lust is. The other part doesn’t want to know.

To his surprise, instead of rushing to one of the exits like she usually does, she makes the line in order to talk to him. His heart leaps suddenly, and he wishes more than anything that the two girls in front of her would fuck off and leave him be with his Madeline.

‘Steady, mate,’ he chides himself, ‘she doesn’t belong to you,’

He deals with two exam questions as quickly as possible, acquiescing in a way that he normally wouldn’t in order to get him closer to his prize. Then suddenly the room is hollow despite a few odd students moving towards the doors, and the scent of clean linen fills his nostrils pleasantly. He’s never been close enough to smell her before.

“Miss Oakley,” he greets politely. He refrains from moving his eyes from her face. Ye gods, she is beautiful. She’s got pale skin despite the warm American summers, and there is a single dimple that lingers in her left cheek as she speaks. She’s tiny, but curvy. Her delicious figure is often hidden under her jumpers, but he knows better. Oh how wonderful it would be to caress her breasts tenderly. He would make her weep his name as the hair on his chin scrapped her sensitive nipples.

“Hi, professor,” she greets shyly.

‘Don’t be afraid of me, beautiful girl,’ he thinks to himself, patiently keeping his emotions in check, and remaining ambivalent despite his growing desire.

“I went to Crete during the break,” she can’t help the smile that breaks across her face like a tidal wave. He feels immensely weakened by this change of expression. It feels intimate to him, as if she is sharing apart of herself. “It was a bit too short, though…”

He smiles, empathizing with her tribulations. He felt quite the same way when he studied abroad.

“Have you thought about taking the summer off? It’s what I did. I considered it an education of my own.”

She laughs nervously, seemingly debating with herself whether or not she should even romanticize the idea.

“Maybe…” she trails off, and then jolts back to attention, and slings her bag from her should and onto the desk, where she proceeds to rummage through her thinks at an alarming rate, as if she’s just remembered something vital.

“Here,” she beams, handing him a piece of fragmented rock. For a moment he is too distracted by all of the different emotions on her face to realize the gesture she’s just given him. He glances down and takes the small rock from her hand and gazes at if with reverence and disbelief. “I’m little, so I blend,”

“It’s perfect,” he breathes softly, admiring the piece. He recalls one evening telling his students that he always dreamed of taking a rock from Knossos so that he could carry history with him wherever he went. He tended to get carried when talking about his travels. He never dreamed that any of anyone would actual pay him mind…

He should have realized that _she_ would have. Beautiful Madeline Oakley. Intelligent Madeline Oakley….

“This was very thoughtful, Miss Oakley,”

Her brow raises for a second time, and he understands now that she is surprised that he knows her surname. Of course he does! She has no idea how foolishly he lusts after her body and her mind. What he would do to burry himself deep inside of her warmth and beg her to say his name…

He becomes so lost in the fantasy that he also doesn’t realize it when she begins to sling her bag back over her shoulder preparing to leave. She glances up at the clock and his eyes follow her. Suddenly the thought of her walking alone in the dark paralyzes him with fear. Why hasn’t he thought of this? It’s late and dark. Though the campus is relatively safe, he is not willing to take the risk with her.

“Let me walk you!” he calls out quickly, nearly stumbling on his own speech, “please, let me walk you… It’s dark and the rest of the students are probably halfway home now,”

She hesitates, and then nods.

Right.

“I’ve got to stop off at my office first for something. Is that ok?”

“Sure,”

He quickly packs his things up and then holds out his hand in a motion to tell her that he’s ready.

“After you,”

They walk in companionable silence down the long hall and through another vacant corridor where his office is located. He’s spaced far apart from the rest of his department having just been transferred in. He has yet to gain full status in his contract and remains an adjunct. So he takes the cold, murky office with gratitude. It had afforded him much needed privacy on many occasions. He has fucked his hand thinking of Madeline on several nights, imagining it to be her throat, or breasts.

They arrive at his door, and he swiftly unlocks it. He’s nervous.

“Dr. Thomas W. Hiddleston,” she reads, testing the name. Generally students call him ‘mister’ or ‘professor’. It is not a common occurrence for someone to use his full title. He decides that it is very sensual coming from her, though he’d rather she call him Tom.

“Just a tick,” he says, as the door swings open. He flicks on the lights, and immediately, like a moth to a flame, she is headed for his bookcase. It is one of the only requests he was firm on. He needed one to house his school related literature and some of his personal favorites to pass the time.

Tom sets his things down, trying very hard not to study her as she blooms under the light of the books.

Her mind was vast and she was so much like a woman who he’d dreamed up so many times. The love in her eyes, meant for no man or romantic intrigue, but for his books… it was the sort of thing that had to come directly from fantasy.

“You like to read?” he questions, standing closely behind her, inhaling her beautiful scent once more.

She remains still, her fingertips caressing the spines,

“Oh, yes, I _love_ to read”. Her response is unintentionally warm and makes his chest expand with hope that she is the woman that he has been searching for. Madeline is not just some lewd fantasy that makes his cock swell; she is _more_. “Is that too nerdy?” she laughs.

‘No!’ he wants to shout, ‘don’t you dare shame your intellect!’

“Not at all,” he replies fondly. “Pick one,”

She bites her lip, and her dimple sinks deep into her cheek. He wants to press his lips against it and kiss her, but he restrains himself.

Finally, she pulls his worn out copy of Coriolanus from the self and turns to him with an impish grin.

“I know you’ve read that… you’ve referenced it in your papers,”

“I know!” she admits with a self-deprecating groan, “but I _love_ it. Plus, I think it would be interesting to see you notes… I would love to read your annotations on the characters.”

He stares, momentarily enamored.

By all means,” his voice shakes softly and he watches as she shifts, a little bit uncomfortably, and so he takes a step back to give her the space that she deserves. She is not a lascivious student seeking his attentions. He has sought out her, because his heart, mind and body _forced_ him to. “You’ll have to tell me your conclusions… whether or not you agree with my analysis of the characters. I value your opinion.”

“Thank you… I will take very good care of it,” she reassures him. By a show of good faith, she carefully places it inside of her bag before stowing it. Tom smiles at the gesture,

“You have my full confidence, Miss Oakley.”

They leave his office and begin the short journey to the student lot. As he predicted, it is mostly empty, security looming here and there, but scarcely any cars. He smiles to himself as she walks them towards a rusty looking rabbit. How very Madeline. Saving her funds for her wanderlust.

When they reach her car, he holds her bag while she slides into the drivers seat, then hands it over, observing how she sets it down carefully on the passengers side.

Then she glances up at him timidly,

“Thank you, professor,”

He’s professor again.

“You’re most welcome, Miss Oakley. I’ll see you on Thursday? We’ll be reviewing Abelard and Heloise.”

Something in her face shifts drastically just then, as if her carefully concealed emotions have just become unstitched. He takes pleasure in looking at her in this light, thinking that she is perhaps the fairest creature he has come upon in this country, let alone state.

“Until then,”

She drives away and he continues to stand there, panic at the loss of her presence seizing him. He needs her so badly that every fiber of his being _aches_ for her sweetness. Only she can sate his sexual prowess and his deep-rooted need for an intellectual connection that tethers on mutual feeling and emotions. He’s tangled. This could loose him _everything_.

He doesn’t care.

He needs her.

He needs Madeline.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is... a taste of the smut that will accompany this journey. Enjoy Xx.

“Della!”

The brutish, imposing voice of the bar manager snaps Madeline, or _Della_ out of her own head, where she has been lost for the past two hours. It inside of the grungy bar that where she is employed part-time, that she tends to feel the safest. The staff, primarily composed of misogynistic, tattooed coved males, _always_ keeps an eye on little Della.

The bar is nearly empty tonight. Only the usual customers linger, slurring lines at the waitresses, eyes bloodshot, and the heavy smell of alcohol permeating from their guts and through their mouths.

Della couldn’t be bothered, though. No. Her heart is still pounding inside of her chest, and she still feels hollow. She’s lost in her own head, replaying the events after lecture. She’d been daring, yes, but it was a genuine gesture. She’d been chocked during the lecture, hardly able to concentrate on the material presented, her nerves burning an acidic ring through the lining of her belly.

Dr. Hiddleston was popular among the female population in the graduate program. He’d recently transferred from Westminster College in England, and there was always some drabble in the restrooms about how “orgasm-inducing” his accent was. Oodles of girls throwing themselves at his heels, willing to lick the scumb from his shoe in order to connect with the foreign professor.

Della would be a little fool if she said that he didn’t affect her. Her hands would shake before lecture began, and her heart would race furiously when imagining what it would be like if she raised her hand and answered one of his open ended questions. The moment of inclination would always be prudishly interrupted by a tanned hand with shinny acrylic fingernails. She loathes those girls. They are the ones who he probably fucks in that glorious study of his.

The thought turns her attitude sour, and she trudges to the back of the bar, gritting her teeth. It makes her resent who she is and how unfair the educational system operates. There are girls like Della, who get home at 2:00 a.m., study till 4, and just barely manage _sleep_ , and there are girls like those apart of the silicon jungle, who’s breasts get them a free pass. They are carefree, and they are at the same level academically as her. They score well on tests, and always manage to have intellectual thoughts to share.

It drove her insane.

Glancing up at Evan, who is manning the bar tonight, he waves her behind with pointed eyes. Yes, he’s flustered and overworked. Della wants to scoff at him and remind him that he goes home to a warm bed and the promise of sleep. She goes back to her studio to a pile of books taunting her.

Nevertheless, she scurries behind the counter, the wood slapping the backs of her thighs as the door swings, and she looks for a task. There really isn’t much to do tonight. They are not busy, and Evan would never dare allow _her_ to pour drinks. It is as if her primary responsibility is to clean and swing her ass in the faces of their easy-to-arouse customers.

Della picks a grey, dirty washrag up from the counter and begins to rub circles into imaginary spots spattered into the wood. Evan looks at her sympathetically now. He has very good intuition and always realizes when someone is bothered. Della thinks that it comes with the title of bartender/owner. He might be just as good as any rudimentary therapist.

‘Fuck off, Evan!’ she wants to scream.

She doesn’t. No, instead she plasters a cheery smile on her face, and continues to wipe the counter down, trying to lose negative thoughts of the silicon jungle. Della tries to reminisce on the transaction between her and Dr. Hiddleston. Her mind quickly goes south, and before she even realizes it, her clit is throbbing with the naughty context running through her mind…

_Lecture hall is empty as she walks in. She’s confused and glances up at the teacher’s desk down the slope of the hall and squints. He’s there, Dr. Hiddleston, and he is wearing his navy pants that leave little to the imagination, and a blue dress shirt that is slightly rumpled because he can’t bother to iron. His hair is cropped, with curls forming at the tips, indicating he was due for a cut, and his face is light and curious._

_“Madeline,” he croons softly, “I’ve been waiting for you,_ ”

Della steps closer to the bar, pressing her pelvis in casually, trying to alleviate some of the delicious pressure, but it is difficult.

_“Where is everyone?” she asks lamely._

_He smiles so sensually that her panties soak with anticipation._

_“This is a lesson structured just for you, beautiful… please, come to the front.”_

_She’s robotic as she complies. She knows what he wants. She knows was she wants. Tonight._

_“Now, Madeline,” he begins smoothly, “this is a very private lecture, and I expect it to remain so. Will it remain so?” the smooth essence of his English voice wafts through her ears and tickles her spine. She can only say,_

_“Yeah,”_

_“Yeah what?” he demands sharply. She flushes,_

_“Yes, professor.”_

_He smiles, pleased with himself. He walks around the desk, which shields his lower half from view, and that when she can see the unmistakable outline of his erection. It’s taunting her. She can think of so many different things that she wants to do with it._

_He catches her starring and smirks._

_“It’s yours, my dear…”_

_She nearly faints when he says that, but immediately chides herself. She needs to be assertive. She needs to stand her ground and not be a toy. She wants something, too._

_Once he is standing in front of her, she can smell his clean, woodsy scent. It reminds her of a men’s clothing store. Her throat constricts._

_“Take off your blouse, Madeline,” he orders suddenly._

_She does, her cheeks flaming. Her sweatshirt required no undershirt or bra, so her tits spring free and there is a small growl from the professor’s throat that shoots wonderful warmth straight to her abdomen._

_“I would have never gathered you to be a commando sort of girl, Madeline. Tell me, are you wearing any knickers under those leggings?”_

_She flushes and shakes her head in the affirmative. By rule, she never leaves the house without panties._

_“Pity,” he tuts softly, inspecting the beautiful, pale globes. Her nipples are light and rosy, matching her lips. “What shall I do with you?”_

“Del? Del? What’s going on in there?” Evan’s voice interrupts her daydream and shakes her back into the present. Oh yes, the bar. Her boss shakes his head and she blushes apologetically. “Go use the restroom and when you come back, I want you to be on your A-game, got it, kid?”

Going to the bathroom is his subtle way of telling her to take a break. She suspects that it comforts him because it sounds as if he isn’t losing money. She’s grateful that he’s allowing her to clear her head, but she also hates it when he calls her ‘kid’. She’s almost twenty-five. Her parents don’t even call her kid anymore.

Still, she doesn’t hesitate to dash from the bar to the employee bathroom. It’s a single lock door, and the moment the lock slides in place, she let out a sigh of relief. She’s soaked and her chest is flushed red.

‘Della,’ her conscious chides her as she dallies in the possibilities of this alone time. This was a dirty bathroom. Surely she wouldn’t consider…

Her nimble fingers pluck the button of her shorts, and yank them over her hips. She’s changed. The only dress code at the bar is the sluttier, the better. Evan relents and allows her to wear a t-shirt advertising the bar, but he was adamant on her leggings taking a hike.

She sighs breathily, the sound turning her on as she snaps the lace of her panties to the side and grazes her finger nails over the trimmed hair covering her pubic region. By no means was Della promiscuous, but she was a glutton for orgasms and the delicious warmth they filled her body with. In the blitz of a moment when muscles seized, and her thoughts became paralyzed, stress and mundane worries vanished and left her with a clean white slate.

It was reprieve.

Quickly, she files through her daydream, deciding that she can no longer afford the time that foreplay will take. She needs his cock _now_. No more teasing. It is another reason that she so enjoys her own fantasies. She controls them. This alternate universe professor is a marionette, and _she_ is _his_ master.

_She’s laying on desk in the lecture hall. He’s looming over her with his shirt hanging open and his chest glistening with perspiration as he rhythmically drives his thick, pale cock into her. The feeling is that of absolution. She knows that if he continues to push himself inside of her, beat after beat, that should she perish right there, her life would be complete. It’s a terrible cliché, but that was the only was to describe the way he stretched her, and how her muscles clamped down on him, daring him to try and slip away._

_He’s sucking in short breaths, gulping the air, giving out an aggravated growl as the force of his hips crashing against her pelvis drives her further away. He remedies this quickly, grabbing hold of the flesh at her hips, and squeezing tightly like they are reins. She cries out, but the pain only intensifies the pleasure as she feels herself building up to that point of tantalizing bliss._

_Settling herself on her elbows, she peers down at the junction in which they are joined. He’s rocking slowly now, trying to make things last. She cannot see his cock because he has buried himself so deeply inside of her that all she sees is the thatch of ginger curls that are brushing against her clit, making her writhe in agony._

_Forwardly, she slams her hips into his, rocking back, and he understands, picking up the speed. Now she can see the source of her pleasure. He is glistening with her juices, so wet and slippery that she rolls her eyes back and lets out a soft moan._

_“Come for me, Madeline!” he demands, his thrusts are now erratic and selfish. She can’t tell though, because the moment he reaches between them, finding their union, he tugs her clit roughly between his thumb and forefinger and she is lost…_

It’s knocking at the door that brings Della back down to earth. Her breathing is shallow as she tries to disguise the orgasm that she’s just gifted herself with. She withdraws her hand from her panties and straightens up. Her legs are shaking badly.

“J-just a second,” she stumbles, walking to the toilet and flushing so no one suspects what she’s been up to. She turns the sink on and switches the tap to scalding hot, pumping extra soap into her hand. Her shorts are still holding her tights tightly together. As soon as she washes and dries her hands, she pulls them and makes sure that she is presentable.

Looking in the mirror, she notes that her face is flushed and she is still breathing deeply. No one will notice in the dimly lit bar. Other than that, she looks as plain as she did when she walked in, but now the tension inside of her has diminished and she will be able to focus better.

Blinking silently, she says a quiet prayer.

‘Please make Wednesday disappear.’

It’s the same prayer she says every Tuesday.

She needs to see him again.

She needs Thursday.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I nearly missed class to bring you this one. Enjoy it while I try to catch my breath. Xx.

 

He thinks he will go mad. He believes that any moment, he will snap and go on a tirade that will lose him this position at the university, and land him in a prison.

Madeline is _not_ present today.

Tom remembers fixating on the two entryways and having his stomach plummet each time someone other than Madeline came through. It is not like her to miss lecture. She’s never missed before. He knows it is silly and inappropriate to know this information—there are so many students in this particularly lecture that he shouldn’t know Madeline’s name, let alone her attendance record. But he _does_ , and it further frustrates him as the clock ticks on, and he can no longer put off starting class.

He’s used his entire day to prefect what he intends to say in his lecture. He paced the floors of his apartment, trailing off, trying to predict her reactions to his connotations of the affair between Abelard and Heloise. She is clever enough to read through his meanings.

Now it was all for nothing.

He broods through the introduction; still feeling his heart race with hope each time a student arrives late. He should have known better. Madeline is unlikely to arrive late.

While he describes Abelard’s alleged treachery, one of the hall doors swings open quietly, causing light to enter the dark hall. A small figure slips in, and Tom heard an audible sniff through the light buzz of noise that is ever-present. He squints hard, and realizes that Madeline is here. She’s arrived.

He nearly forgets what he is discussing, but quickly recovers himself, trying to keep his eyes away from her as she scans the room for an available seat. Nothing in the back is free, and it forces her to come to the very front row. His excitement builds. He’s never had the pleasure of having her so close during a lecture.

“Abelard _loved_ Heloise,” he says, carrying on, his residual baritone filling the room. He dares to peak at Madeline, and his stomach nearly drops when he finds the projector light illuminating her face, and notes that she has dried saline tracks, and red puffy eyes.

Oh no.

Perhaps the world was crashing in on him that moment, and he was breathing his very last breath. It wouldn’t have mattered, because Madeline was crying. There was no sight as painful as witnessing her eyes filled with freshly brewed tears, ready to fall if she didn’t concentrate on keeping them locked in their prison.

He wants to go to her. He wants to drop to his knees and cup her face within his hands, and sweep his thumbs gently under her eyes, washing away her sadness. He wants to take her to his home, and strip her body, bathing her, then he wants to fuck away her sorrow; slowly, intimately.

‘I can make you forget your sadness, beautiful girl,’ he thinks.

A cough from the audience reminds him of his place. Right. This is lecture, for Christ’s sakes. He can’t let himself be distracted no matter how potent the temptation is. He must continue.

He scans the crowd when he senses a hand lifted high into the air. He squints, but can make out another grad student; Leslie, he thinks her name is. She is beautiful, but in a way that is manufactured, and full of plastic and predatory fucking skills. Leslie would drop to her knees and gag on his cock if he gave her any indication that she was welcome to. She was one of those women who had an innate desire to conquer.

“Professor,” she begins, her voice like syrup, “I don’t really understand—weren’t there _rules_ back then? How did he get away with everything…? Didn’t he care that he could lose his job?”

Ah, yes. The seductive inquisition, hoping to squeeze a drop of lust out of him. Her predictability made him smile.

“Yes, of course…. But think about love, for a moment. You’re young. Love is in its prime for you…If you were in love, would rules stop you?”

He immediately regrets his words as a shy smile stretches across Leslie’s lips, and she casts her eyes downward and then back to him. His concern for Madeline has momentarily dismantled the barrier that he keeps firmly in place so that his female students don’t run with false impressions. That is always a very dangerous game to play.

“No…I guess not,”

Tom feels chills chase down his spine. He would never fuck a girl like Leslie. She was not his particular brand of women. She was missing all of the singularities that he desired; ones that _Madeline_ possessed.

He clears his throat and feels anxiety. The plastic remote in his hand that controls the slides nearly drops from his sweaty palm. He should have _never_ said that. He looks to Madeline, and her face is pointed downwards, and there are fresh tears running over dry ones.

 ‘Oh, no, beautiful girl…please don’t cry,’

He isn’t sure how he continues, but he manages. Surely it is not the lecture he has planned, but he doesn’t linger on its failure, no. He is far too worried about his wilted pupil that is sitting in front of him, entirely despondent. His imagination is running wild with the possibilities of what has her so distraught. Perhaps it is a lover’s quarrel. Perhaps all of this talk of Abelard and Heloise is just re-wounding her jilted heart. He can’t bear thinking that she is a woman spoken for. It’s a crushing theory that sickens him so badly; he has to dismiss the class earlier than the period time.

His voice is calling out to her before he can’t prepare himself for what he is going to say. He asks her casually to stay behind for just a moment. It is at that precise moment, that his usual line forms and he begins to work through the gaggle of estrogen that smell too sweet, and irritate him with their mindless banter. He wants to plow through them and drop to his knees in front of Madeline. He wants to beg her to tell him what is wrong so that he can make everything better again for her.

He coasts through questions and compliments until finally the room is vacant minus two. Madeline has her bag packed, prepared to leave the very moment that he is finished speaking with her. It disappoints him, but he turns those feelings off. Right now it is Tom and Madeline, and she is clearly _hurting_.

“Madeline,” he murmurs very gently, taking a risk at using her given name. He comes closer to her, and crouches to her level so that he can see her eyes. The close proximity does not make his cock twitch. He doesn’t think about fucking her mercilessly into the desk, but instead, he feels all-consuming compassion. “Are you doing alright?”

“I’m ok,” her voice is so soft and gentle, that Tom is sure that the thread by which she hangs, is _very_ thin.

“Madeline,” his voice is warning, “I don’t think that is true…”

He observes as she swallows tightly, and again, no lewd thoughts play through his mind. He only wishes that he could reach forward, and caress his index finger along the pale column of her throat.

She peaks up at him, and washed through her beautiful brown eyes, there are pools of wetness. A few tears escape, and she dashes them away, trying to hide herself from his scrutiny.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs softly, “tell me how I can help you,”

She can’t say anything, and he continues to wait patiently, his gaze never leaving her face, faithful and genuine in his mission to comfort her.

“Come to my office for a cup of tea. We can talk…. or just sit, but _please_ don’t make me leave you like this,”

She complies.

____________________________________________________________________

His mind is reeling as they walk the familiar path to his office. He is tempted to place a protective hand on the small of her back. He’s also tempted to carry her bag for her—he wants to shoulder her burdens, both literally _and_ figuratively. He desperately wants to ask her what has happened. What has made her _so_ distraught?

For some reason Tom cannot identify, Madeline did not strike him as the type of woman to ever cry. He knew it was a strange way to think, but something about the way she carries herself makes him think that she is a strong woman that does not acquiesce to weakening emotions. It makes him want to wrap her up and cuddle her tightly until she is ready to resurface. It makes him want to _protect_ her.

When they enter the office, she stares around with hollow eyes, a fragment of herself, while he hurries over to the small microwave, and begins to prepare a subpar tea with all of the supplies he keep in his office. Nothing compares to the kettle, but this will have to do. He is aware of her eyes on him. She scrutinizes him sharply, her gaze unnerving him. He spills some of the hot liquid, and curses, quickly bringing the scalding skin of his palm up to his mouth and sucking.

“Are you ok?”

It’s the most she’s said all evening, and oddly enough, her voice soothes him.

“Yeah, sorry. I lost my head for a moment, it seems.”

She sits on the green leather sofa that sits against the wall. There is a small coffee table in front of it with bits and bobs. He is not accustomed to visitors at this hour, so during his afternoon right before evening lecture, he sometimes sits on the floor, legs under the table, and goes about paperwork in that particular way. It settles him when he is jittery.

He emerges from the corner with two steaming cups, and graciously hands one to her. She takes it will a halfhearted smile of appreciation, and rests her forearms against her thighs, leaning forward pitifully, and sucking in the aroma of the tea.

“Chai?”

“ _Vanilla_ chai, actually. One of my secret pleasures. I’m typically an Earl man, but I think this particular brew smells festive and it reminds me of Christmas at home,” he finds himself smiling wistfully, and she returns it, this time genuine.

“You’re so _English_ ,”

“I am from England, darling. What do you expect?”

“What’s England like?” she inquires. He’s a bit affronted by the inquiry, especially while she is upset, but he concedes and clears his throat, pondering how he could possibly describe the place he loves more than any other.

“It’s cozy. The weather is ever mercurial, but that’s one of her endearing qualities. There are heaps of little shops…places to have tea. Our tea is what you all consider lunch.”

She is cupping her tea with two hands, seeking the warmth, and leaning forward as if she was attempting to listen better.

“There is the parks… they are always filled with different people…runners, pet owners, artist, sweet elderly couples. No matter the time of the year, there is _always_ and ice cream cart out in front of Hyde. It’s insane!” he laughs despite himself, getting carried away.

“Why did you leave?” her question is very intrusive, but she doesn’t appear to be the least bit apologetic. He glances up and meets her eyes, liquid blue on stormy brown.

“I wanted adventure, Madeline, the same way you do,”

“Della,” she whispers softly. He’s confused a moment. He blinks, begging her silently to speak up. He cannot bear for a single syllable to be wasted. “I like to be called Della,”

“Della,” he tests. His accent glides over the nickname and his skin prickles with excitement. She’s requested that he call her by her preferred name. To Tom, this is very wonderful news indeed.

“I’m sorry I came in late,” her voice is small again.

Tom snorts with indignantly.

“Della, you are easily one of my star pupils. Please do not apologize when there is no reason and when you are very clearly distressed. Do you think me heartless?”

She glances up from the lip of her cup that she’s been starring down, and a touch of pink washes over her lips. She shakes her head and he breathes deeply. She looks beautiful, with a fresh face, and warm eyes. He wants to tuck a stray hair away from her face so he can observe her without any interference. She is classically beautiful, and Tom decides that it is a culmination of many things that makes her so.

“Though I would very much like to know what has caused you to cry. You never know when talking about something can help mend whatever is going on in there,” he said gently, in reference to her heart. She closes her eyes and expels a deep, cleansing breath.

“My father is dead,” she said quickly. “He died. He is gone.”

Tom stares at her, intrigued and distressed at her impassivity. She appears so cold, and so callous, yet he knows that this is merely a front to shield herself. No one is that strong.

‘Oh, beautiful,’ his mind murmurs softly. ‘Please let me hold you,’

“I am very sorry to hear that, Della. That is very grave news and I offer my sincerest condolences to both you and your family.”

He doesn’t mean to sound so robotic or scripted; it is only that he is unsure of what to say, because her attitude is so indifferent.

“I’m not sorry,” she whispers after long moments pass. There is a small beat that passes through the room, and her beautiful faces crumples and she repeats with no conviction, “I’m _not_ sorry!”

“Fuck,” he whispers, as tears begin to flood her face in a torrential downpour of pent of emotion and stress. He has to force himself to remain seated while his beautiful girl sits across from him and sobs alone.

The room is silent as she weeps and he is so filled with hurt for her that a thousand things flit through his mind, and yet he is unable to properly compose a sentence for very long moments.

“I…cannot say that I understand you grief, Della, but I do understand your rights to feel the way that you do, and I will not sit here, a presumptuous ass, and try to convince you to feel otherwise.”

She’s nodding, looking down, and then up, watery eyes, still crying audibly. He needs so badly to make a connection with her.

“Can I move closer?” he tests gently, an act of good faith. She nods her head, and he sits on the sofa next to her, his weight sinking them in so that her thigh brushes his. He can smell her, and nearly feel how soft and creamy her skin is. He wants to reach out and brush it tenderly, but he refrains. He is crowding the couch with his long limbs. He can feel the vibrations of her tears.

Unsure of how it happened, he doesn’t dwell, merely relishes in the joy that fills him as beautiful Della tucks herself into his chest and whimpers softly while he wraps one arm around her shoulders, offering security, and his free hand massaging circles into her lower back.

He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t question her, or say words of comfort. He doesn’t even try to dispel her tears. Tom simply exists with her, and creates a safe place for her to feel the way she does sans the ridicule that she is so terrified of.

The feel is exquisite. Though Della’s hurt makes him reel, he capitalizes on how it feels to hold her closely. Her nose and lips are evident as they push against his chest, moving up every once in a while as a whimper fights to escape. She is a broken little doll. He wants to take each piece of her, and carefully glue her back in order. Della is too precious an entity to him. He feels too strongly in regards to her to allow this to slide and pretend like nothing is wrong.

So Tom is patient. He waits her out, sensitive to her every movement, silently begging his cock to behave and not make a scene.

He never envisioned his first time touching her to be like this. His imagination is much more salacious. He’s dreamed up her beautiful breasts bouncing wildly, and how tight she might feel around his cock, begging him to take it slow so that she might adjust to him. He’s dreamed of touching her soft back, stroking her lips with the very head of his cock, coating her beautiful lips with his seed.

He shuts his eyes tightly. She is silent and still, and he knows that he is going down a very dangerous path. Carefully peering down, he looks past her brow and finds her eyelids closed. She’s asleep. He is surprised for a moment, and then takes into consideration how exhausted she must be. There is a lot going on in little Della’s life right now.

He is very gentle as he detangles her from his arms, and positions her the best he can so that she is reclining. She doesn’t stir, and he watches her a moment, the sight of her fascinating him. Her lips are slightly parted, and her eyelashes dark against her pale skin. He wants to caress her face like he has done before so many times in his fantasies, but he relents, and leaves her, opting for his desk chair.

Tom sighs deeply and rubs his temples, trying to process what has happened, and trying to understand how she suffered so much hurt in one lifetime. This should very well be the time of Della’s life. She should always smile. He also wonders why he is so fixated on her. There is a plethora of women who he should be turning his attentions to. Margret, the secretary that works in the front building, has smiled sweetly at him _everyday_ since his arrival to the school. She’s beautiful, and has the potential to be a saucy little minx. But he doesn’t _care_. He wants Della.

She was his Heloise, and he was not ready to accept moral barriers over the deep-seated desire, longing and lust he felt. Now affection. Something about seeing her cry has changed the way he processes his infatuation of her.

Tom orders food thinking she may be hungry. He is starving suddenly, wanting to consume everything in sight. He thinks it may be a coping mechanism to keep his mind off of his growing lust. Everything comes back to his selfish cock.

__________________________________________________________________________

When she stirs, he presumes it is because the delectable smell of Thai food has saturated the room. He’s guessed, and ordered a small bit over everything. He buys Cola from the vending machine, wincing at the sight of it, but thinking that it may be a welcome familiarity for the American.

He watches as her eyes stretch open, a brief horror crossing her features as she realizes where she is and that she’s fallen asleep. She looks to him, a sleepy haze still looming over her, and forces herself to sit up. A yawn the escapes her mouth is quite amiable, if he is honest.

“Hi,” he greets sheepishly. “You were tired, so I just let you go…”

“Thanks,”

“I order dinner. I figured you might be a little hungry,”

“ _Very_ hungry,”

She slides from the couch and to the floor across from him and where he is sitting with his legs cross, waiting patiently to start on the mouth-watering food. He is momentarily distracted from his hunger as he watches her carefully, gaging her mood and reactions.

“Bon appetite,”

“Merci,” she replies, still a little sullen as she rips the paper from her chopsticks. She is not conscientious as she begins to open up different boxes peering inside, and he enjoys this display of confidence. It’s the Della he is very familiar with, the one he has studied carefully and quietly during the semester.

“You’re not allergic to anything are you?”

“Walnuts,” she answers. He takes a mental note, but is relieved that there is no danger of anaphylaxis here tonight.

“I hope you like what I’ve chosen,” he says, “I’ve yet to meet an American who doesn’t like this sort of food,”

She strikes her brow up at him and drowsily asks,

“Are you stereotyping?”

“Never,”

The playful banter soothes him.

“I’m missing work,” she tells him unapologetically, finally deciding to go with some spicy noodles,”

“Where do you work?” Tom inquires, starting to salivate when he opens his own noodles and Thai peanut sauce. It seems divine.

“Roaders… by the arena.”

He twirling noodles onto his chopsticks and looks up at her, slightly gaping in disbelief that she is employed at such a place.

“The _bar_?”

“Yep,”

He doesn’t like her saying _yep_. It makes her sound uneducated and crass.

“And your shifts are generally so late in the evening?”

“Mhm,” her mouth is full of food. She eats like a lady, but has no reservations. Generally women are not so comfortable eating with this level of inhibition when they are in the presence of strangers. It soothes him for some reason.

He swallows tightly, not wishing to talk about her place of employment any longer. It will give him too high a level of anxiety. He is already consumed with Della. There is no reason to add a safety concern to his agenda.

“Thank you for this…and for _that_ ,” she looks back at the sofa and he realizes she is referring to him holding her.

‘Oh, beautiful girl, it was my sincere pleasure.’

“Humans are entitled to things like this…and that,”

Her brow quirks.

“This is just so strange.”

“Sharing a meal with me?”

“Sharing _anything_ with you… you’re my professor. You’re supposed to be ruthless and cold-hearted.”

He chuckles softly.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Della.” He swallows tightly again, his throat constricting, “sometimes you need to be sad with someone else,”

Tom watches her eyes. He measures her responses and breathes a bit deeper than usual. He wants her to agree with him, but understands that she won’t. She is embarrassed about her display of emotions.

The rest of their dialogue is kept light. She doesn’t wish to rehash any heavy subject that might cause a renewal of her weakness. Tom understands, and tells her more about his home, and tries to discretely squeeze more information out of her. She is not very elaborate, and that is disenchanting, but she does poke through his food containers, and try pieces of what he suggests, which replaces those feelings quickly.

She even laughs. Just once. It’s loud, and chimes like a bell, echoing through the room, and leaving him a little jittery. She has a beautiful laugh. Her dimple sinks into her cheek, and her lips turn up in delight. Just for one moment. That is all.

When the hour grows later, and their words become sillier, Tom insists that he escort her to her car again, telling her not to bother with the debris of their meal, and that he will attend to it when he returns.

Their walk is silent. They arrive to her car in record timing, not by his account, but hers. She is eager to be rid of him, he thinks broodily. When she unlocks the door and throws her bag inside, she turns back and looks at him blankly, then offers a tight smile as she brushes errant hair from her face.

“I’m sorry about taking up your time,”

“No apologies necessary, Della,”

“Thank you…”

They linger. He isn’t sure why, but they do.

Then she is safely inside of her car, and driving away, leaving him in her wake. His heart beats fast and loud through the empty lot, as he stares after her, punishing himself, wondering what might have happened, or why things might have just been ruined before they had a chance.

“Della,” he whispers her name into the air, tasting its sweetness, and praying that one day he might be able to kiss her.

Della.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut to come shortly....


	4. Chapter 4

_I’m fucking her again._

_This is the way my dreams always turn out; Della, spread out like a lovely feast, begging me to do vile things to her. I am no gentleman in these dreams. I know what I want, and I know how I want it. Della offers her body to me. Her eyes give consent as I drive my cock into her. She’s responsive, singing for me. I know I am going to hard, but I don’t care. I fill her so deep and so hard, that it hurts me. I whimper in pain and she sits, causing a tighter grip on my cock._

_What she does next startles me. She gently takes my face in her hands, brushing her thumbs gently along the stubble, and kisses me, still rocking her hips to the rhythm in which I piston into her. Pleasure is washing over me and I cry out in ecstasy as Della clenches, her body still._

_My fingertips dig into her hips brutally, and I yank my face away, and force her to lie back down so that I can complete what I’ve started. Della’s beautiful face is washes away in my selfishness as I grunt, hitting her cervix and listen to her small, sad cries of pain. I continue, my mission shutting my conscious down, focusing on the orgasm that will come to me if I continue to fuck this sweet cunt,_

_“Yessss,” I hiss, felling the muscles of my belly clench, the familiar, burning coil nearly disintegrating. I feel fire. I feel desperate desire coursing through me. I reach for my pleasure, wrapping my hands tightly around her midsection._

_Her tears slide down her belly and I can feel them. They are taking me away before I an stop them, carrying me in a fiery grasp to my own hell. Sudden her screams around surrounding me, echoing loudly in my ears, piercing the barrier in which I separate this primal fucking from what humanity is. Everything is real, and raw. Della is hurt._

_I’ve hurt her, and now I must suffer_ …

He wakes with a gasp, flying out bedclothes, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he pants. Fuck. He’s covered in sweat, and he is pulsing beneath the thin layer of cotton that conceals him. This dream is torturing him. It has been plaguing his sleep for the entire week.

Della hasn’t come to class.

Della, with her superb attendance record, has vanished into thin air, and she consumes his each and every thought. It only get worse at night when he comes home from spending the day inside of his office, locked away in his misery. He overreacts, he knows this—one week is the equivalent of _two_ lectures. Most student skive classes left and right and he doesn’t bat a single eyelash. But Della missing out on lecture did not sit well with him.

He’s calmed himself down, but knows that he would get no sleep now. Glancing at the clock on the side table, he reads the time with a low groan that sounded like ‘fuck’ escaping his mouth. 5:02 a.m.; entirely too early after getting to bed too late the night before.

He ponders why he was so late to bed, and then remembers with a slight twinge to his cock. Gia. She had been beautiful, and he had fucked her from behind with closed eyes, too ashamed to admit the script coursing through his brain as he rammed his cock inside of this beautiful stranger. Gia had been a decent supplement for his lonely bed, but he had no emotional attachment to her. He’d proven as much when he requested that she leave a few moments after he came all over her tanned backside.

She was too acclimated to his tastes to be offended. Tom grimaces at the thought. He doesn’t take pleasure in objectifying women. Gia was a warm cunt for him to pound his aching cock into. That was _all_ she’d been.

He brings a hand over his face, and drags it over it over his skin roughly. Slowly his is skittering off the edge of sanity and becoming a man who he hated. His mortality is evident every waking moment of his pathetic life. What has he become?

He slips out of bed and winces at how chilly the floor is in contrast with his body heat. He is hard from the more pleasurable parts of his dream, but something about wrapping his fist around his cock can no longer satisfy him the way it once has. He needs more, and there is only one place he will find that.

He toes through his cluttered apartment, cursing blackly as his small toe slams into a pile of textbooks right outside of his bedroom. He’s forgotten about them and after two months, they sit collecting dust. A part of Tom wants to mourn for the neglect of his precious literature.

His mind flits over to Coriolanus and how it is in the custody of a woman who will likely never want to see him again. Once more his angry rationalizations take over and the dialogue in his head is livid banter. He feels rage consume him, drinking up every ounce of confidence and making him weak and vulnerable. What had he done that was so bad? Why was she doing this to him?

He drags a carton of milk from the fridge, hoping the lactose will counteract the acid in his belly. It’s refreshing after such a nightmare. He leans his forehead against the freezer door for support while he lingers in the glow of the fridge lightening. His life is in fucking shambles. He is miserable, _trapped_ in his own head. Della diminished his capacity to think and function normally. He is a shell right now, existing day-to-day, hoping that suddenly things change.

 _____________________________________________________________________________________

 

Tuesday evening before lecture finds him nursing a cup of tea and picking at wilted spinach leaves from a salad that he has half-consumed. The chicken tasted off to him, and he scowls at him once in a while, looking up from the papers he’s been marking up for another lecture he teaches.

There is a feather soft knock at the door, and he glances up irritably, expecting one of the leggy blondes to appear any moment with one of their dull propositions. They are never blunt, too afraid of risking their academia, but subtly is not the specialty with those females and it makes him cold.

“Come in,” he invites, looking back down at the essay he’d been working on.

‘ _The Venus de Milo would have been more aesthetically pleasing in her original state.”_

He rolls his eyes and slashes through with his inky pen, a curve forming at his mouth as he thinks of the satirical rebuttals that he could so easily write…

He stops, a red blob forming from where the tip of his pen has rested to long, and looks up. A familiar perfume has wafted through the room, circulating until the hints of lavender and rosemary assaulted him dead-on.

He sees her standing in front of him, wearing a teal summer dress, a cardigan around her, and slipping off on of her shoulders, exposing her pale skin. She has freckles on her shoulders from previous sun damage. Other than that, she is unblemished.

“Hi,” she begins nervously, “can I sit?”

“Yes, yes… of course,” he is so nervous to have her within the same vicinity of him, that his body jerks upward as if he is going to stand, and his knee knocks into the wooden desk and he curses,

“Fuck!”

A giggles pierces the room, and he quickly glances up so he can capture the moment and preserve her face, hopefully in replacement of the nightmare Della that still cries in his dreams each night.

“Sorry…are you ok?”

“Fine. What can I help you with, Miss Oakley?”

“I thought I was Della,” she mumbles, looking at his cluttered desk.

“Della,” he rectifies, “what can I do for you?”

“I’ve missed the past two lectures,”

“I’ve noted,” his voice holds a bit of ice, “and _why_ have you missed those past two lectures?”

Blue eyes search brown eyes for a viable reason for skipping his class; something that might lay his demons to rest. Perhaps tonight he will sleep well since he has seen her and she is not the Della from his nightmares.

“I was at a funeral,” she says, her tone equally icy.

His face falls immediately.

“Fuck, Della, I’m so sorry, please excuse my foolish insensitivity…” he rubs his temples with his fingers and peaks up remorsefully, “please forgive this fool,”

“It’s ok,” Della tells him impassively, “I would have rather been here,”

‘Oh, beautiful. You’re still hurting,’

Her eyes are blank, any traces of her earlier mirth completely gone. He leans forward on his desk, holding his chin in his hands.

“If it makes you feel the slightest bit better, my lectures _were_ a funeral.”

A quirk of her lips was is reward.

“I like your lectures,”

“I can email you my slides and notes… I’m sure you didn’t miss much of anything you don’t already know….”

She is staring softly, not paying attention to his offer,

“I’m sorry about last week. I was out of line and I put you in a bad position. I apologize,”

Tom’s eyes narrow, fixated on what’s she’s just said, and also furious. Just as he has presumed she would, Della considers her emotional upheaval a nuisance and an embarrassment. He doesn’t know what to say or how to dispel her worries and own self-destructive thinking.

“I don’t like my father either,” he finally says, surprising himself that he was willing to share such an intimate thing with her. “He has never been proud of me, and so I’ve never been proud of myself.”

“Have you ever wished you father was dead?” she hisses angrily.

“No, I haven’t. Talk to me, Della. You’re not doing any better than you were last week. Tell me what is going on up there,”

“This is so fucked up,” she blurs, reaching for her bag, “I just wanted lecture notes.”

“Please,” he stands again, this time far more gracefully than before, and she freezes in her departure. “Can I make you tea?”

“Is that you answer for everything?” she asks furiously. He swallows hard, unsure of how to answer her. She’s lashing out, he knows this, but he doesn’t know how to properly respond or comfort her in the way he desires to.

“No,” Tom responds calmly, “I just thought you might like some. It’s getting chilly,” he eyes the thin straps of her dress, and fixates on why she’s decided to wear that tonight rather than her usual garb. “I’ve got proper biscuits, too. My mum actually sent me some…they don’t have my particular favorite here. I’ll share them,”

Della struggles, and looks up at him with a furrowed brow of confusion, not with him, but with herself. She is up and down, and it is making her want to scream so loud that it stripped her vocal chords and released the tension she’s felt.

“I’d like that,”

______________________________________________________________________

 

They are sitting across from each other much like the previous week, two steaming cups of tea in front of them, with a packet of hobnobs in the middle. Della picks one up and eyes it suspiciously.

“You _dunk_ it,” he insists, “that’s the true English way,”

A crack of a smile forms at her mouth and she dunks it very quickly into her tea and then takes it out,

“Hurry, Della!” he admonishes, “don’t let it get _soggy_. Jesus, you American’s just don’t appreciate the customaries of a proper tea.”

Another giggle as she chews the biscuit. It rains over him beautifully. He stretches back on his forearms and observes her languidly. His lecture isn’t for another thirty minutes. He wants to spend every last second in her presence to make up for the time lost while she was on hiatus.

“That sounded a lot like a stereotype, professor,”

“What are your dreams, Della?” he asks, ignoring her comment, his eyes looking wistful and expectant as he watches her. He is curious to know her on a deeper level. He thinks that stitching together an ideal of who she is, may ease some of the tension he feels.

“My dreams?”

He nods.

“I’m not sure. I want to travel and live. You know what I mean. I want to do what _you’ve_ done.” She brushes hair from her face and sips her tea, “I’ve dreamed about living abroad. Waking up in Paris. How lovely would that be?”

“It _is_ lovely,” he tells her, his eyes shinning with memories of Paris. “Della, you need to go to Paris. It will make you a new woman,”

She grins at him, and he falters for a moment, not remembering the subject they were discussing or why her mood has changed so drastically from when she first entered his office. She is looking at him differently. It is not provocative, or angry, but it is observant, as if she is trying to work something out in her head. He wishes he could be apart of that conversation.

“You are beyond your years, Della.”

“Why are you saying that?” she demands, staring him dead in the eye.

“I think you ought to know. I respect and admire you a great deal,”

She huffs.

Before she can respond, someone knocks at the door. Tom looks up, not expecting anyone, and flinches as Della quickly moves from the floor to the sofa, her haste making him uneasy in thinking that he is wrong to want to have tea with her. The color drains from his face, and he stands as well, and opens the door. He feels sick as he sees Leslie standing in the doorway, a smile on her lips, her bosom nearly bared for the free-world to cast its gaze upon. She is scantily clad and flashing her eyes at him like signals.

“Good evening, Tom.” She purrs. He has a laxed policy with students like several of the professors here do. Most of the student body is too shy to call him Tom, but some of the more brazen students caress it like a reverent kiss.

He cannot remember her name. He knows she’s called Leslie, but her surname escapes him, and he refuses to address her in such an intimate way. It makes him a hypocrite, he is aware, but he doesn’t actually care right now.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I was wondering if you were finished marking my essay yet….I’d like to see the corrections,”

“Actually I haven’t started on your section’s yet. Things have been very busy,” he offers politely. She smiles again and reaches out a hand, placing it on his arm with a gentle laugh,

“That’s alright! I was a TA for a lit class…I know it can be a bit overwhelming.”

Right. Now he is at level with a TA. He inwardly whistles away his embarrassment.

“Yes, it can be… actually I am in the middle of a meeting right now, so if you wouldn’t mind terribly—“ he assumes that he has safeguarded Della from her prying eyes up to that point, but he is wrong, because the moment he delivers that news, she tilts her head inside of the door frame, and sees the woman sitting on his sofa, and her eyes harden immediately.

“Oh, ok. Of course. I wasn’t sure that we needed to schedule visits now…”

He doesn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer, so she whips her hair unceremoniously, and offers a goodbye, which he returns with reluctance. The door closes, the soft click resounding through the room. Tom knows that Leslie has made Della feel uncomfortable. He looks to her and notes that she is standing, straightening her sweater. Her face is pinched. She is upset.

“You turn us out quickly, don’t you?” she asks him daringly.

“What do you mean?”

No. No, _please_ , he thinks, understandingly perfectly well where this is going.

“We’re _all_ your girls, aren’t we, _Tom?”_

He doesn’t expect it to feel this way when she says his name for the first time. It makes him feel shameful.

“Well, I am sorry I ate up what would be a perfect blow job,”

“Della,” he warns with a growl, no longer wanting to hear her speak to him with such vehemence, especially when he has not earned it. “you are out of line there,”

“It seems that I am actually out of _place_ ,” she corrects, with a twisted smile, “I’ll be leaving now,”

He snatches her arm as she tries to walk past him, and pulls her roughly in front of him, glaring at her.

“Do you think that _little_ of me? That I fuck every cunt that comes my way?” she tries to pull away from him.

“Yes!” she hisses, “that _is_ what I think. I think you relish in the idea that every single female in this class will drop the panties for you in a fucking heartbeat!”

She’s angry and slighted. He can nearly feel her heart beating inside of her chest.

“All but you, correct, Madeline? You are the exception…”

“Right, because I don’t fit the mold. Fuck you!” she is so hostile. Never has he imagined that she could possess such hostility and think so cruelly of him and herself. After the intimate moment that she shared with him through her grief, he cannot believe that she’s turned so quickly, and rage has replaced what he presumed to be gratitude and respect.

He doesn’t think. She’s tumbling from his arms again, and he needs to have her there, to control, to worship. He needs Della back in this place. His fantasies have not been the same. He has not been able to think of exist without the thought of her torturing him.

He kisses her. He kisses her hard, slamming her into the door so that she hits her head. But she doesn’t break away, not to cry out in pain, or anything, but she remains frozen. He doesn’t back off, he presses forward, placing a hand on either side of the door, trapping her. A sharp groan escapes, and a terror floods him. Is this his dream all over again? Is he going to hurt her?

But then she is holding his torso, his touch firm but still as gentle as he has imagined so many times before. It is far more fulfilling and exquisite. He hands travel upward, and they reach his face, and he nearly shudders, emotion curling inside of him. It’s a release.

Her lips start to move against his, and they are no longer gnashed painfully. The pace is slow, languid, both Tom and Della needing to leisure in this opportunity and living dream.

Then he drags his mouth away, leaving them both gasping for air, his eyes never leaving hers, terrified of an adverse reaction. He wants to kiss her again. He wants to drown her beautiful face in affection, rinsing away all of the hurt that she has bottled up. He wants to be the last thought in her head before she explodes into bliss she’s never even dreamed possible.

“I don’t _fuck_ my students, Della,” he pants. “I have never wanted anything more until _you_ ,”

Her eyes are wide after his admission. Her hands are still on his body, resting on the ripple of muscles at his abdomen.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. He kisses her again, gently, chastely, and then tilts her chin up with his index finger.

“Come back to me tonight, Della. One kiss will not be enough to satisfy me. I want _all_ of your kisses and all of your passion.”

He is afraid that he’s asked too much of her, but she is undeterred.

“Ok.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Della and Thomas get to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not edit this chapter. I am so busy with school work that I just don't have the time. But I really wanted to get it out, so I hope every one enjoys and leaves me feedbacks. Xx. Smut ahead ;)

He doesn’t think he will be able to tolerate lecture that evening. His pressing need to return to Della overwhelms his senses. She is ever-present, and all consuming. To make matters worse, she takes a seat in the third row again, her beautiful legs on display, and the curve of her breast through the fabric of her dress evident, and sending jolts of excitement through him. He wants to suck her tits. He wants to make her a whimpering mess of need. In a sense, it almost seems like a catharsis for him. He wants to reduce her to nothing, and build her again; this time carefully crafted to adore him in the way he adores her.

What distracts Tom mostly is think of all of the different ways he wants to fuck her. He’ll start in her glorious mouth, and then work his way down, her warm cunt being his grand finale. He’ll look into her eyes and promise that he can be anything she needs. Even through the pent up need, which he suspects her to be in possession of as well, he will remain an emotional outlet for her. That is what they will be. Should Della ever need a definition, he has one.

Tom glances around the nearly full hall, and tries to clear his head. It was quite the task considering that he would be buried between Della’s thighs soon. With an ironic plea to God that he might be able to think clearly and rationally, he begins the lecture.

Even though the dynamics change so suddenly, Della doesn’t neglect her desire to learn from Tom on an academic level. She feels tense excitement, but also knows that sitting in her chair, squirming the entire period, will not do her any favors, and will only further torment her. She needs a clear head before entering the lion’s den, so she choses the best therapy available, and submerges in the lecture that Tom executes beautifully.

She studies him, and the graceful movements that he makes around his desk and the podium, not able to help himself from walking or flailing his arms when he’s excited for a certain topic. He understands passion. It is one of the things that make Della want to consume him. She hopes that his intellect and experience will seep into her pores and fill her with all that he knows. Della wonders what is might be like to be sprawled out in his bed, lying on her tummy in the aftermath of their beautiful fucking. She envisions what it might be like to have him rest his cheek against her spine, his voice muffled as he explains to her the relationship between Cleopatra and Marc Antony.

She smiles despite herself, forgetting for a brief moment where she was. She’s caressing her face with her hand, still immersed in her daydream of what post-coitus may be like for the both of them. She’s so enraptured, that she isn’t even worried about getting there. Will they first fuck inside of his office, or will he ask to go back to her place? She says thanks to god that she lives alone in her shitty little studio. It is much more convenient for life’s little intrigues.

Little?

She wonders how large his cock is.

Her cheeks blush bright pink as that thought crosses her mind. Just looking at his sheer size, she knows that he will not disappoint in a biblical sense. What if he is selfish? What if he only cares about his own orgasm? Fuck, she thinks. She’s had lovers like that, and she doesn’t fancy another one.

A scowl crosses her lips, and draws in his attention. He smiles nervously at her. She observes his emotion, and regards it with relief. He is nervous just like her. But will that make him clumsy? Will the real professor make her climax as hard as the dream one does?

She can no longer concentrate, her thoughts becoming dirtier and dirtier by the second. She is squirming against her seat, a deep need that has been clawing at the surface for so long, finally ready to burst if it is not addressed soon. At this point, she is desperate for him to fuck her any way he pleases. Just as long as he can give her what she needs.

Tom watches her discreetly, trying to focus on the lecture that is being presented to nearly two hundred of his pupils, but it is too enticing to move his eyes away from her for too long. He knows that he is gambling his career as a professor, and her future as a student. The vindictive Leslie is a shark, and she most likely views little Della as a threat to her would be scheme of seduction. He knows that Leslie will keep her eye on her now that she sees her in such a way.

While there is an erection bursting at the seams of his crotch, he knows it is too risky to fuck Della here. His mind runs wild as he thinks about what he will do and how he will do it. He doesn’t live far. Should he bring her home? His flat is completely littered with his work and reading, but who cares? His sheets are fresh and that all they will need. Tomorrow he’ll cook her a full English and maybe bend her over the breakfast bar. While he is getting to know her delicious body, she will be his fuck toy, pliable in his hands, yielding to his whim.

He sputters as he flicks to the next slide. He forgets for a moment what he wants to say, and quickly creates a line of questioning, deciding that will be the only way he can continue this lecture on an academic lecture. If he doesn’t, he is bound to slip and start to babble about how badly he wants to suck Madeline’s clit.

It feels like eternity, but finally, he calls for the end of class, and immediately looks back to Della, and gives her a slight tip of his head, indicating that he wishes for her to wait. She gets up anyways, and walks towards the exit, making his heart leap into his throat with confusion and anger. Had she changed her mind? He’s watched through the lecture as she’s fucked him with her eyes, and squirmed in her seat like a little tart. He knows that she aches as badly as he does. Now she fucking leaves?

He is a mess. He has a raging erection, concealed only by the desk he stands in front of as he shuffles through the questions, snapping more than he normally would. Now his emotions are in full upheaval, disbelief flowing through him rapidly. He was so sure that he and Della had connected together on a deep level. Had he been wrong?

He curses blackly as he head down to his office, fully prepared to take matters into his own hands and fuck his hand before driving home. He knows that it should be her warm mouth wrapping around his cock, but his little beauty got cold feet.

“Fuck,”

“I was hoping you’d say that,”

Tom jumps, nearly spilling the contents in his hand as a second voice appears out of thin air. Della walks from the shadow of the hall, close to his office door, and is wearing a sultry smirk on her beautiful face.

“Good evening, professor,”

He stares, mesmerized.

“Del…I thought you had left… I thought you were telling me to fuck off,” he sputters helplessly, knowing that she has power over him like no one else.

“No one has called me Del before,” she whispers. “I like it,”

He has the urge to throw all of his things to the side and gather her into his arms, throwing away the salacious thoughts that plague him during the entirety of his lecture. He wants to make slow, sweet, _passionate_ love to this woman who has been so starved of comfort.

“Come in…please,”

When they are safely inside of the office, he sets his things down, and brings her forward, and kisses her softly, enjoying the moan that transfers from her mouth to his. She presses her hands against his chest, and slides along the cotton of his dress shirt. He groans softly, and tears his lips from her.

He cups her cheek in one hand, and she closes her eyes, pressing into his palm.

“Are you sure about this?”

“I don’t know what this is, and I don’t want to define it… I just want to _feel_ , Tom. Please just let me feel,”

He swallows at her bold request.

“I don’t want to fuck you in my office… it’s not right. You deserve better,” he manages to get out, his other hand tracing her larynx, watching her shiver in delight.

“I live alone,”

“I want to make you breakfast,” he whispers. “I want to wear you out, beautiful girl.”

“I want to wear _you_ out,”

He smiles.

“I will enjoy your endeavor, sweet. Shall we go to mine, then?”

She nods, and he kisses her again, this time holding her closer so that she could feel the storm brewing within his trousers.

“Know what you are doing, Madeline,” he spoke lowly, his voice silky with both promise and threat. “I am not offering to be your man, I am offering to be your lover… that’s what I know how to do,”

She blinks, and for a moment, his breath is locked inside of his throat and he is unsure of whether or not he has now lost the battle for her. But she remains indifferent, and he knows that she feels quite the same way. This is sex, no strings attached. Will he be cold and callous? No. Tom has done this before. He can put up a front to make her happy, just so long as she understands that he is not here for complicated.

“One thing before I seal my fate,” she whispers, as his hands glide over her shoulders, “have you ever done this with a student before?”

There it was. The hard limit for Madeline Oakley. She needed to be singular in that way, and it pleases him that no lie has to slip from his tongue to her ear. No, he has never done this before with a student. The thought has generally been a repulsive one to him. But there is something very special about Della. There was something about that girl that made her more than the others.

“No,” his lips ghost over her forehead as if to sooth her frazzled spirits. “Only you,”

Yes, that was just what she needed to heat, because the moment he has said those things, she kisses him again, this time raw and unreserved, throwing caution to the wind, and demanding entrance into his delectable mouth.

He has to detach her from his lips in order to breathe again. A small smile plays at his lips.

“I will write down my address. Will you spend the night?”

She nods dumbly, not bothering to consider her options or whether or not she is making wise choices for herself. She agrees to everything and anything he wants to do.

“Excellent,” he places small, tugging kisses along the rim of her mouth, teasing, nibbling, and making her moan softly. “Go home and get some things… then meet me in thirty minutes.”

Again, she nods.

“Della, I am going to fuck you long and hard tonight. I am going to explore every inch of you. I will make you uncomfortable, and give you so much pleasure you won’t even remember your own name. Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” her voice is so tiny and innocent that he wants to throw her down right then and ruin her, but he doesn’t. He remains in control, realizing that allowing his emotions to slip will destroy the chance of ever getting his fantasy Della and bringing her to fruition.

He presses on last kiss on the side of her mouth, and lingers. She is frozen, and only when his lips are gone, and there is only a tingling sensation left from his scratchy beard, she realizes that it is time for her to go back to her apartment and prepare.

They say nothing else. He walks her to her car to make sure she is safe, and then she drives away.

He prays that she comes back to him.

__________________________________________________________________________

Tom is usually a safe driver. Her obeys the rules of the road, and complies with speed limits, but there was so much to do and in such little time. He flies down the streets to a little market that is open 24/7 and does the shopping, picking up ingredients for breakfast, and snacks in case she likes to nibble late at night. He buys the most expensive wine he can get, and finally he buys new condoms, unsure of whether or not the ones sitting inside of his side drawer are expired. Gia had brought her own condoms, and he’d spilled himself onto her back, not wanting to take his chances of coming inside of her.

He wants to be inside of Della when he climaxed. He wants to fill her. It was intimate to him, and said a lot about the dynamics of a relationship. Even if this was sex, he wants to make sure that they are strongly connected. Della is different than his one night stands. She has the potential to please him on a long-term basis, and that excites him tremendously. He is going to take special care of her.

When he arrives to his flat, he sighs in frustration at all of the books lying around everywhere. Other than the clutter, it is clean. He keeps up with his washing, and his kitchen is pristine. He hopes that she does not mind stubbing her toes on Chaucer going to the loo in the night.

He’s renting the flat at a posher place to avoid student-populated areas. It is very nice, with two bedrooms, a full kitchen, a cozy sitting room, and a balcony. It is the perfect size for him, and he enjoys nothing more than cuddling up to a good novel on an exceptionally blustery day. He envisions what it would be like to have Della tucked against him, clutching a blanket while he read to her. It’s a wistful fantasy, and he chides himself, wondering whether or not it will be himself who has the problem with too deep an attachment. He’s a lover.

He doesn’t change his clothing, but he does pour two glasses of wine, allowing them to breathe, and waits anxiously for the door, gently palming himself while he lounges on the sofa. He closes his eyes thinking about how delicious it would be to bend her over the sofa and fuck her there. Perhaps if they are conscious enough, he will take her all over the flat, in every room that hosts a viable surface to fuck.

Small knocks at the door interrupts his daydream, and he jumps to attention, quickly readjusting his cock inside of his trousers so she won’t know what he has been up to.

He opens the door and notes that she is dressed just the same as earlier. Her face is washed and bared for him to drink in, and he does, admiring her natural beauty and wanting to study her like a piece of art, memorizing the planes of her body.

“You found it alright, then?” he murmurs, beckoning her in, slightly pink in the cheeks as her eyes explore his flat.

“Yeah,”

“It’s a bit cluttered.”

“I think it’s incredible,” she breathes softly. He was right. His books enamor her. There is lust in her eyes and Tom is unsure if it belongs to him, or his literature. Either way, a soft smile lights up his face and tugs at the lines near his eyes.

“Would you like some wine?”

She nods her head, and busies herself, walking the perimeter of the room, caressing the spines on the shelves built against the main front facing wall. It’s beautiful, and Tom takes a lot of pride in it. When he finally decides to leave and return home, he will miss those shelves.

“Here,” he hands her the glass, and takes a sip of his own. It’s not the best wine he’s ever had, but it will be enough to relax the both of them.

“Did all of these come with you from England?” she asks, sipping her drink, and finally looking up at his eyes.

“Most. I’ve acquired a little since coming here,”

Her eyes widen.

“You’re spending a fortune on shipping!”

“When you’re in love, shipping costs don’t really matter,” he chuckles. “You can borrow anything you’d like. I know that you appreciate books the same way I do.”

Silence passes between them, and Della drains her wine, needing the confidence to do what she is about to do. Settling the glass down on a nearby coffee table, she shrugs out of her cardigan, and kicks her shoes off, then approaches him, tiny, and smaller than he thought she was. His eyes darken. She’s offering herself for him to take, and it is a sensual sight.

“You are a _very_ beautiful girl, Della,” he speaks slowly, setting his glass down, and cupping her face, studying her closely. She closes her eyes as a method of protection, clearly embarrassed by his words. It is comical to him that she could be so sassy and now so shy before him.

His lips ghost over her face, and a shiver runs up her spine, and makes her vibrate. He chooses that moment to kiss her. Slowly, and deliberately. She feels like heaven and tastes even better. Her skin is very soft to touch and he also closes his eyes, trying to calm himself. If he doesn’t get a firmer grasp on this situation, he will melt in her hand and he will be at risk for unwanted feelings.

He couldn’t help it, though. She was fragile in spirit, and he wants to break her, and mend her at the same time.

He settles on kissing her now. When his tongue enters her mouth, she begins to whine softly, her hands smoothing over his chest, and idly toying with the buttons of his oxford. He doesn’t give a damn about his original plan to take this slow. The moment she begins to touch him, he can no longer control his inhibitions, and he reaches down, and grasps the hem of her dress, and pulls it over her head in one swift motion.

He steps back to observe her, and nearly faints when he sees the underclothing that she has adorned herself with. She wears a matching set of black lacy knickers and a bra that her breasts are nearly spilling out of. It is sheer, and he can see her nipples as they strain against the offensive fabric.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, “let me look at you.”

He circles her, his cock jerking as he catches sight of her luscious ass, greedily pinching the sexy lace between both cheeks. The curve of her back is beautiful. Her skin is a milky white, and his mouth salivates as he imagines how good it will taste on his lips.

“ _Beautiful_ , Della, absolutely magnificent,”

A pink blush blooms over her chest indicating her shyness, and she peaks up at him through hooded lids.

“I want to see you,”

“Please,” he indicates that he wants her to undress him. She does not linger a second, and only comes to a halt when he suddenly lifts her up. She yelps and secures her legs around his fit waist, clinging to him as he walks them through the front room, along a hall way, careful to avoid his beloved books, and then carefully deposits her onto his bed, making certain to slide her against his engorged cock as she descends.

She stands and continues working his buttons until his shirt is off.

“I’ve fantasized about doing this, professor,” she tells him saucily. “I’ve had to excuse myself at work to take care of my needs.”

“Fuck!” he hisses, as he nearly loses it and explodes in his pants. She pushes the fabric down, and her eyes marvel against the contours of his chest. Her finger pads brush softly against him, and he shuts his eyes, soaking in the feeling of being touched in such a way.

“You are the beautiful one,” Della whispers gently, as her fingers slip to the band of his trousers, and with perfectly precision, tear the belt from the loops, and then rubs him through the material. He bucks into her, and she feels like a glorified sex goddess, that she has been able to reduce this man to such a state. Quickly she takes care of his pants, and smirks when she realizes that he has forgone underwear. His cock is a piece of art personified. It’s long and thick with a thatch of reddish blond curls at the base, his sac looking tight and uncomfortable, and the head of his penis a shade of purple. She wants to look at him all day, but she also craves what he might taste like. Stepping forward, his cock brushes against her belly as her arms loop around him, and her nails trail lightly over his back, becoming familiar with it. He is not aggressive. He doesn’t push her down and fuck her into the mattress, instead, he allows the exploration, and watches her with curious eyes.

“I…” she trails off, “can I?”

It takes him a moment to realize that she is asking his permission, and he swallows a laugh. Instead, he shakes his head, unable to articulate how much he would like her to taste.

She sinks to her knees, the plush carpet cushioning her fall. She comes faces to face with his erection, the very same erection that she has dreamed about. Della reaches out a hand and touches him. He’s so hard that she imagines it might be painful. Her free hand explores his balls, rolling them, testing their weight in her hand, a rush of wetness pooling in her panties as she imagines how good they would feel smacking her clit.

Della glances up at him and notes that his blue eyes are bright and they fixate on her. She darts her tongue over her upper lip, and then makes contact with his head. The sound that comes out of his mouth is a straggled cry. It sounds like many things—deprivation, starvation, pleasure, and satisfaction… everything she would imagine he might feel during this. It encourages her, and she presses a soft kiss along the underside, where the head is connected to his shaft by a thin piece of skin. She stretches her tongue out and licks it, testing it out, and he howls so loudly, that she feels his pleasure shoot through her.

Della continues these torturous ministrations, dragging her tongue along the vein that pumps semen through the slit at his very tip when the time is right. She takes his balls into her mouth, sucking them one at a time, soaking in immense pleasure at the moans of agony that slip from his mouth and into her ears. Finally, when she is done exploring, she returns to the head of his cock, and opens her mouth, sealing off her teeth with her lips, and carefully sucks him into her mouth, the salvia that she coated him in providing lubrication and easy entrance. He curses so vividly that she laughs, and the vibrations make him buck forward as an instinctual reaction, and she nearly gags, only stopping herself as she spits him out and takes a moment to fill her lungs with clean air.

“Oh my god!” Tom says frantically, “I am so sorry, Del… I did not mean—“

But he is cut of when she takes him in again, this time swallowing him whole, proving to him that it was but a moment of weakness, and now she has much greater control over her reflex. Her tongue swirls wherever it lands, and she continues to try and take him deeper and deeper, her throat stretching and contracting almost painfully. She blocks it out as she imagines all of the pleasure that he derives from this. He is a blithering mess right now, going on about fucking her face.

Della pushes further and is satisfied as her nose is pressed firmly to his abdomen, his pubic hair brushing against her. She releases him with a soft gasp, trying to reestablish airflow, one hand reaching down and slipping her hand into her panties, fully prepared to pleasure herself while she works on sucking his cock.

The next few times she takes him in, she is more aggressive, humming and relishing in the way he strains to control himself. The next time they fuck, she will let him sit on his chest, and fuck her face freely. She trusts that he will not suffocate or choke her.

“Oh my god, you fucking goddess,” he moans while she is bobbing her head. His fingers lace through her hair, and pushes it to the side so he has a perfect view of her ministrations. He is so close. He wants to flood her mouth with his hot cum. “Oh fuck, yes… right…oh yes, right there!” he shouts, feeling his balls tighten as she lets her teeth graze his sensitive tip. “I’m going to burst in your mouth, darling,” he moans sensually.

And he does. Thick streams of his cum fill her mouth, hitting the back of her throat, making her buck onto the fingers that pleasure herself. He is salty but she eagerly swallows him, taking care to smack her pearly coat lips, before glancing up at him and licking the sticky cum off with deliberate slowness.

His chest rises and falls rapidly and he has to hold himself up against the bed, grasping the edge for support as he recovers.

“That was bloody fucking amazing,” he wheezes. Della stares at him, transfixed on how vulnerable he looks, and taking immense satisfaction in knowing that she has yielded him to this particular point. Her fingers are still working her clit, and a small sob of need escapes her, causing Tom’s eyes to flash open and blaze on her.

“No, no, nooo, little pet,” he admonishes, grabbing her by the forearms and yanking her up, “I told you that I want your pleasure. Don’t steal that from me, beautiful girl,”

He lays her out on the bed, and spreads her legs. His eyes glaze over the soaked material covering her pussy and his pupils dilate with need. He can smell her arousal. Carefully, so that he doesn’t destroy the sexy knickers, he slides them down thighs, and then stops, leaving her immobilized, which he knows will heighten her pleasure while he eats her beautiful cunt.

It is beautiful indeed. She is natural, and not shy about it. Unlike the whores he has known, she does not shave her pussy bare, but she leaves a small patch of silky hair so that her partner remembers that he is fucking a woman; a _real_ woman.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. Tom aligns his face with her entrance, the smell becoming more and more intoxicating, sex radiating through every sense in his body. He is going to shatter her. He flicks his tongue out and lavishes the beautiful chestnut curls between her legs. She whimpers and jerks, but he keeps her down using his forearms as weights against her thighs. “You tortured me with your inquisitive tongue. I think I shall repay the favor,”

He begins to press small kisses all around the moist heat that longs for him. He enjoys this teasing. He feels her muscles tense and he grins to himself, before fidning the very end of her slit. He flattens his tongue, and in a moment of merciless pleasure, he swipes along the entire length of her slippery softness, ending at her clit, where he clamps his lips and sucks without inhibition. She screams, and cries, her fingers lacing through the curls on his head, tugging and scrapping as he continues his expert assault. No one has ever made this feel so good. Oral sex for women was often sloppy embarrassing, but Tom made it very clear that he knew exactly what he was doing.

His lips are coated with her arousal as he buries his face into her crotch, his tongue dipping between the folds of her sex, and gliding through her entrance. Her hips buck, and he holds her down more firmly as he thrusts in and out with his mouth. She’s chanting for him now, begging him to never stop.

She needs _more_ , she tells him brazenly.

He returns to her clit with a vengeance, and in a moment of pure white ecstasy, she drifts away from the bed, and into a realm of pleasure she never knew existed. He doesn’t stop as she vibrates through her climax, bucking roughly. Instead, he slides a finger into her, her walls contracting hard and rhythmic, trying to push him out before the suck him back in. He inserts another and moans. She so fucking tight that he can only imagine what she will feel like wrapped around his cock.

“Tom, _please_ ,” she begs as he continues to torture her, pumping his fingers in and out swiftly. In one last effort to bring her there once more, he curves his fingers inside of her, deliberating running the calloused pads over her G-spot.

Her scream pierces the air. He replaces his fingers with his mouth, eagerly lapping up her tangy orgasm, the sight of her coming so erotic to him, that he needs all of it. Nothing has ever been more beautiful.

He releases her legs, and sits in between them, his cock standing at attention once more. He aches to fill her. Studying her face, his eyes roam over her body that is now covered in a sheen of sweat. He grins to himself as he reaches down, and lifts her forwards, quickly unfastening her bra.

He nearly faints when he sees the swollen mounds of pale flesh. She is even more beautiful that he has imagined. Her nipples were hard, and pert, begging to be touched.

“Sit up, my love,” he whispers huskily. With half a mind, Della obeys, still unsure of how to make her body cooperate.

Tom cups her bared breasts in each hand, and tests their weight, the ripples running through the milky flesh making his cock twitch. He squeezes gently, and a moan rolls from her mouth. He kneads them with his hands, and then lowers his lips, and presses gentle kisses on each of her distended buds. Whimpers encourage him, and he slowly increases pressure until his kisses turn to bites, and she writhes in his lap, her cunt dripping against his cock.

“You have beautiful breasts,” he murmurs, squeezing them again, before pulling back and observing her, “I would fuck them, but I need to be inside of you,”

“Please,” Della cries. He grins at her desperation, and decides that it is time. He leans over the bed, and reaches into the side drawer where he has places the fresh condoms. Della sits up on her elbows, wanting to watch him.

He tears the wrapper off, and pinches to tip of the latex before positioning it at the head of his cock. He slides it down with one smooth roll, and Della’s brown eyes shimmer with excitement. He looks slick. Condoms are a huge turn-on for her.

Once he is sure that it is properly in place, he comes back to her, and brushes his lips against hers in a tender fashion. His eyes flicker to her, and there is a question looming. He realizes that this will be final. Penetration doesn’t leave the mind, and he wants her to know that if she wants to stop, he will not force her.

“Tom,” she says bravely, “I need you to fill me,”

He can’t hold back. With another kiss, he takes his cock in his hand, and carefully positions it at her entrance, knowing that there will be initial discomfort, just by how tight she felt around his fingers. He prepares himself to take controls, and then gently, he enters her.

She tenses for a moment, but he continues to slid into her wet heat until he is fully sheathed. A cry escapes his mouth,

“Oh god, Della,” he whimpers softly, his face contorts is what seems to be pain, but she knows he is overwhelmed. “You feel so good.”

She moans softly, and he starts to extract himself, only to slide his cock in again, making sure that she’s fully stretched, and that pain is no longer a factor. He’s deep, and she feels so good, he is sure that he can come any moment.

Della lifts her hips, and crosses her legs over his back, the heels digging into his ass, trapping him, and encouraging him to go deeper.

He does not deny her what she wants. He starts to go harder, his pelvis grinding against her clit as he slams into her with brute force.

“I’ve waited to fuck you,” he grits between thrusts, “I’ve dreamed of this cunt,”

“Yessss, yes!” she chants, digging her fingernails into his back. Tom hisses and straightens his back so instead of laying over her, he is seated on his haunches, fucking her without any constraints. She is begging, sobbing his name. It is such a turn on that he fears he will finish without taking care of her needs.

“That right, darling, come for me,” he croons, finding her engorged clit, and pressing down. She rocks her hips forward, the needs for a climax taking hold of her, and robbing her of any thought and rationalization. Suddenly it is just his cock, and she needs him in the worst way. He is unrelenting as he fucks her hard and deep, bottoming out, touching her cervix and turned on by the mewls she makes as he does so. He is frenzied as desperate.

“Say my name, Della. I want to hear it,” he demands in a rough pant, sweat glistening along the line of his hair as he repeatedly pushed into her body.

“Tom! Tom….TOM!”

She becomes limps after her body seizes up, the familiar white light consuming her, her eyes rolling back and her muscles straining to bad that they sting her in the aftermath. She clamps down, her velvet walls holding his cock captive as he stills and shoots his cum into the condom, still buried deep inside. He is repeating her name in a reverent whisper. Over and over.

It takes them both long moments to recover. Tom feels like jelly as he carefully slips from her, and discards of the wet condom. His chest rises and falls hard. He can think of nothing but the woman lying before him. He collapses next to her, his breathing still erratic, but the overwhelming need to hold her consumes him, and he doesn’t allow another moment of separation.

Tom tucks the panting woman into his embrace and kisses her temple dotingly, petting her sweaty forehead, sliding his leg between her thighs. He whispers soft things to aid in her recovery, but it takes her a while to breath normally.

A silence falls over the room, and he cuddles her closely.

“Della…” he says quietly, “that was…beautiful,”

“Thank you,” she returns peacefully, snuggling into his post-coital embrace.

His eyes close before he can see or feel the tears leaking from her eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little morning after smut and angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments would be lovely. Xx.

She wakes in the middle of the night, startled and shaking. Tom, not used to another person occupying his bed, wakes too, and immediately notices that Della is not peacefully sleeping next to him, but sitting up, and panting quietly, trying not to disturb him. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and he tries to jostle himself from his grogginess so that he might attend to her.

“Del?” he uses the nickname that is singular to their tryst and nothing else. She is spaced out, though, her eyes glazed over and a hand pressed against her chest in an attempt to self-soothe.

She’s frightened.

Tom sits up, and rests his shoulder against hers, providing a small amount of physical comfort for her while she comes back down from her high. He reaches out and takes her free hand that grasps the sheet close to her breasts, and brings it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against her palm, eyes tilted upwards at her.

“You’re alright,” he shushes softly, rubbing his thumb against her knuckles, regarding her face carefully and watching as the panic slowly diminishes.

“Sorry,” she whispers to him. He squeezes her hand gently then decides that he can’t stand the gap between them any longer, and pulls her into his body, so that he head rests against his clavicle, and his chin sits at her crown.

“Don’t apologize, darling. You were scared, that’s nothing to be sorry about.” His voice is very gentle in this setting. It’s different from his loud baritone during lecture, and also different from the seductive purr that it held during sex. It was filled with soft concern right now, and she decides that she could bathe in the rich lather, and be content right there for a very long time.

“Do you want to tell me what it was about?” he inquires. She can tell that he is very tired.

“No. Not tonight,” she whispers back.

“Ok.” He doesn’t force her to talk. If she wakes again, then perhaps he will pressure her a bit more, but right now his focus is on keeping her safe. So he carefully gathers her up, and slides back down into the pillows until they are cushioned nicely. Della sighs in contentment, and slides her legs between Tom’s thighs; the muscles making her feel safe at the present time.

He presses a kiss against her shoulder before drifting off to sleep again, hoping to take her with him.

 _____________________________________________________________________________________

The next time Della wakes, she is alone. The sheets on Tom’s side of the bed are crisp and cool, and she rolls over, and sighs contently. She’s surrounded by his scent, and enjoys the private moment of drinking him in, closing her eyes and remembering the previous night and how her body now aches from the rough fucking he gave her.

She blushes and sits up.

Yes, definitely sore.

Peaking at the clock mounted on the wall, she notes that it is late. They’ve really slept in. It felt divine though, especially after the well from hell. She hasn’t been sleeping. Even last night with Tom the nightmares did not evade her. She takes a deep breath, and shoves those thoughts into the back of her mind, not wanting to think about all of that mess right then.

She smells coffee, and bacon. Yes, breakfast. The thought of food lightens her mood considerably, and motivates her to hop from the bed, and shuffle around looking from something to slip over her body. She sees a jumper slung over a dress, and decides to clothe her body with that. It’s warm and it smells like him.

She slips on her underwear from the previous night, and shudders. She doesn’t like wearing day old underwear, but she knows that it is foolish to slip into anything fresh until she showers.

Tip-toeing around books, she finds her way from his bedroom, and to his kitchen. She’s surprised when she finds him buck naked, wiggling his hips as he faces the stoves, spatula in hand attending to a sizzling pan.

A giggle makes him jump in surprise as he turns. His lovely cock is flaccid and beautiful, and stirs when he spots her standing in his jumper that barely covers hers bum.

He frowns.

“I was hoping to bring this to you in bed,”

“That’s ok,” she grins, “I am quite enjoying the show,”

He chuckles and sets the spatula down, sauntering over to where she stands in the entryway, and stoops down, kissing her softly, and then tucking a strand of hair from her face and behind her ear.

“Good morning, beautiful girl,”

“Good morning, naked man,” she grins, kissing his chin, enjoying the scratch of his beard. She pears over his shoulder, “may I help with anything?”

He raises a brow suspiciously,

“Can you cook?”

She blushes furiously, and he smiles, slighting her. She narrows her eyes, and decides that she needs to once again get the upper hand, so naughtily, she reaches her hand down, and finds his semi-erect cock, and gives it a playfully squeeze.

“I can suck your cock while you make me breakfast. We’ll consider it an appetizer,” she winks.

He gasps at how brazen she is. Where has the shy Madeline gone? She is a temptress testing every bit of willpower he possesses. Tom sucks in a deep breath, his cock expanding and lengthening with every stroke she gives him.

“You want to suck my cock while I make you breakfast?”

“Seems like an even deal,” she murmurs, lifting an arched brow.

“Take the jumper off,” Tom commands, his voice authoritative. “I want to see your magnificent tits.”

She steps back and slides the sweater over her head and leaves her breasts free, jiggling with every movement she makes. He swallows hard and she can tell that he is turned on. His cock is now bobbing on its own accord, straining to be attended to. He walks a few paces to the stove, and invites her to kneel in front of him.

When she drops to her knees, he feels as if he’ll come right away. The sight is so erotic. She is tentative, studying her project before begging to pepper soft kisses over the tip. He inhales sharply and groans.

“Flip the bacon, Tom,” she reprimands, flattening her tongue before sliding the crown of his cock into her mouth and sucking it. She moaned at how it feels to make him come undone. He bucks, carful not to stab her throat like he did last night, but just enough so that he is engulfed a little further inside of her velvet mouth.

“God yes, you little minx. Suck my cock,”

His words spur her on, lifting her brown eyes up, knowing very well that he looking at her. With another long stroke, she pops him from her mouth, and takes him in her hand, sucking on the base, pressing open mouth kisses at the juncture between where his cock met the heavy ball sack that was coated in soft hair. Tom gasps, thinking that she is going to take it into her mouth, but instead, she presses her tongue against the spot firmly, refusing to relent as he moans wildly at the sensation, nearly burning his hand on the stove.

“Fuck!” he hisses. She chuckles, and then takes his sack into her mouth, rolling his balls with her tongue, shutting her eyes and getting lost in the words that float from his mouth, “Shit! Fuck, _yes_ , Del… that’s it beautiful,”

He slips his hand down to find his shaft, preparing to pump it to glory, but a firm smack causes him to retract in surprise.

“No touching, professor,”

 _Professor_.

He thinks he may faint as she releases his balls, and moves to the tip of his cock again. She sucks the head, swirling and exploring it with her tongue, tormenting the slit that is already releasing clear pre-cum as a sign that he is ready to explode into her mouth.

“God, keep doing that. _Please_!” he begs. It turns her on, and she moves her free hand down and slips through the band of her panties and begins to pleasure herself. He is unaware as he closes his eyes and leans his elbows onto the cool bits of the stove for leverage, pumping his lower half into her mouth gently, careful not to gag her as he fucks her face.

She felts him quiver, and seize up, and opens her mouth wide to scream wildly as her own orgasm rips through her. Hot jets of cum splatter her mouth and face and his cock bobs helpless, and vulnerable as he slumps.

She giggles, and it slips him out of his haze. He moves, his cock softening, but still a slippery mess, and looks at her face. She’s covered in his cum, and looks so beautiful and sexy, that he wants to consume her whole.

“That was fucking amazing,” he breathes.

“It was. I’m a mess now,”

“Yes you are,” he agrees bringing a finger down to swipe at the cum on her lips. He offers the white-coated digit to her, and she parts her lips eagerly, sucking it clean. He groans in pleasure. Fuck. She was going to kill him.

She maneuvers herself from under him, and rises, some of his cum leaking onto her breasts in the process. He half-heartedly pushes the bacon in the pan to keep it from burning while he observes her.

“I’m going to take a shower, ok? I’m hungry, and I want some food _food_ when I get out…”

Tom, still high from his lovely blow-job, nods lazily, smiling at her.

“As my lady wishes,”

______________________________________________________________

 

She takes a shower inside of his bathroom, using his shampoo and soap to cleanse herself from last night’s romp, as well as this morning’s intrigue. The scalding water beats down on her and helps to loosen the muscles that have coiled up from the positions that Tom held her in last night. It had been worth the repercussions, she decides, remembering how he’d made her scream.

After she finishes, she changes into a pair of yoga pants and a cozy sweater to combat the growing outside chill. She brushes her hair, and inspects herself. She has small bites along her chest as she looks inside of her top. She suspects that they came from the moments when he nibbled at her breasts the previous night.

‘He’s a breast man,’ she thought amusedly.

She went through his bedroom and found her discarded bra and then went into the sitting room where her dress and cardigan where folded neatly on the sofa. He must have picked up when he woke.

Once she settles her things, and her nerves, she joins him in the kitchen once more. He’s put on a pair of sweat pants that hand sexy and low off of his hips, the deep V leading to his cock deliciously visible.

He smiles affectionately as she come in, and it makes her feel like more than just a cheap two-bit whore that he’s fucking. He regards her warmly, and welcomes her into his arms, burying his face into the neck of her soft jumper.

“There is my cuddly girl,” he whispers.

They linger like that a moment, and she nearly asks him what he means. Wasn’t this morning what he wanted? She was swathed in very unrevealing clothing, and he seems to flock to her even more now.

While he is embracing her, he inhales deeply.

“You smell like me now,” he observes with a chuckle.

“Is that I problem?”

“I like the way you smell.”

“Well I like the way _you_ smell,” she counters, moving her head and peaking up at him. He looks at her silently, studying her softly. He kisses her cheek tenderly, knowing that he is entering dangerous territory and needs to regain the upper hand.

“Come… breakfast is ready.”

They eat in a similar fashion that they had in his office; sitting down across from each other at a coffee table. Della is impressed with the spread that he’d laid out. He chatters away, explaining that it’s a fry-up, and then proceeds to identify every thing that litters the table. It looks divine. She wrinkles he nose at the beans, explaining that American’s didn’t really eat them at breakfast time, but tried them anyway.

They chat about things. Della tells him about some research she has done for London that summer, and he listens enthusiastically, giving her tips and advice whenever it is welcome. She beams when she talks about exploration. She loves history nearly as much as him. He regards her with sentiment that goes beyond sexual inhibitions. She is very much the woman of his dreams. The circumstances are shitty, indeed.

When she finishes, and nurses her cup of tea, he bravely decides to ask her about the nightmare that had startled her so badly early that morning.

“….You were just _panicked_ ,” he says worriedly, “it scared me,”

He sounds young then. Della knows that there isn’t that much of an age difference between the both of them, but usually he sounds very in control. His current tone takes her by surprise and she swallows.

“I’m afraid to tell you what it was about… it will change this, and we really haven’t got a chance to enjoy ourselves yet,”

Tom swallows hard at her statement.

“Del… I pass no judgment on you. Surely you realize that?”

Her eyes sadden and he hates himself for bringing this up.

“I know. I just don’t really want to go there right now. I hope you can understand.”

He reaches his hand across the table, and squeezes her palm.

“I do, darling. I do.”

He disappears into the kitchen, and when he returns, she’s bent herself over his sofa, her yoga pants and panties pooling around her ankles, with a condom sitting on her ass like a Christmas present.

He fucks her from behind hard, and makes them both forget about the conversation that they had. She comes twice, and winces when he gives a final power thrust inside of her, spilling into the latex. She’s peaked her head over her shoulder and watches his face while he ejaculates. It’s erotic and beautiful.

“Fuck,” he swears.

Something tugs at her belly as he leaves her, his cock sliding out.

She’s becoming attached to something that she can’t have.

Fuck, indeed. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shot, smutty fluff.

Though Tom pleads with her to spend another night, she has to refuse. Della reminds him that she is a student, and there are exams that she needs to study for. He pouts. They’ve had a blissful afternoon, selfishly encased in one another, discovering and testing limits. Tom can’t remember his last orgasm filled afternoon. Della is young with never-ending stamina. She fucks like a pro, and despite his original thoughts, is not very gentle and meek. She encourages his dirty whispers while bouncing up and down on his cock. She is every bit sweet and lovely when she is dressed, but the moment that her skin is bare, fixed under his heated gaze, she becomes wanton and terribly lusty.

He misses her the moment she has gone. Every place in his apartment serves as a reminder of the previous hours they’d spent getting to know each other intimately. He fondly reflects on the way her faces pinches with pleasure when she is near completion.

It wasn’t simply the sex that had emblazed Tom. It was the company and conversation they kept. She’s able to keep up with him and hold her own. She challenges his ideas and makes him laugh like a demon. She is perfect. And the sex. _Holy fuck_ was it good. She is insatiable, which turns out to work very much in his favor. Her eager little kisses make him swoon with romantic inclination. None of the girls that he sees are allowed to kiss him. Della is different. She is very special.

He doesn’t call her or send an email that he’s written three times from a false account. He knows that it couldn’t be traced to him, but he didn’t want to run the risk of scaring her into apprehension. The remained of the weekend, his hand is wrapped around his cock, his strokes sometimes painfully slow and other times frantic and desperate. When his cum lands onto his belly, he imagines her tongue flattening against the skin, and licking it up. She was a naughty little thing.

Tom admits that he is consumed with her sexuality. It was a course that he had not intended on taking. He didn’t want to objectify Della as his hot cunt whenever he needed a good fucking, but the turn of events told him that’s what it would be in the grand scheme of things. She was not partial to his spontaneous affection. Throughout the morning she had taken kisses for invitations to fuck. He certainly had no objections to those ideals. Della could have his body—his _cock_ , anytime she so desired, but something about it had felt strangely hollow.

He wants to go back on his word. He doesn’t know why he ever eluded to the idea of a purely sexual relationship. From the first little fantasy inside of his head, Madeline Oakley was always more. That’s what had satisfied him so profoundly in his head all of those long, torturous months. Now to have the real thing without the main event causes him to feel uneasy. He had created his own personal hell.

 

___________________________________________________________________________

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” Della doesn’t seem to know any other word as she bounces eagerly on Tom’s cock. The weekend has been long, and she has fantasied about him filling her once again.

He groans and it is low and languid. His fingers are tightly gripping her ass, helping her movements, desperate for purchase. Her words spur his orgasm on, and he shakes and pants, trying to take her with him.

He looks up at her, and she is lost in her own blissful world, selfishly focusing on what she needs from him.

‘I want your cum to drip from my thighs,’ she’d murmured to him upon arriving at his office after hours, and locking the door with a deafening click.

Now, her eyes are shut, and her hair tumbles, shinning in the dim lightening of his little world. It’s been nearly a month now since their illicit tryst has began, and he has never been more sexually gratified or frustrated. It is maddening. Sometimes he wonders whether or not he will snap and force her to stay the night, or force her to _hold_ him.

Della seizes up, snapping him out of his thoughts. Her quim grips him painfully as it contracts with her pleasure. Her finger nails have sank into his shoulder blades as she tries to keep herself from screaming to the top of her lungs with the pleasure that is ripping through her like a tidal wave.

“Oh, shit!” Tom swears, quickly pulling her off of him and fisting his dick a few short times, pearly liquid streaming all of her and his thighs. His balls tighten and twitch as he finishes his delicious orgasm, making sure that he is completely dry, before releasing his cock, and letting it jut off as Della fingers herself in the last moments of her bliss. She is so sexy. He has found a woman who is uninhibited in bed and that excites him. She is demanding and greedy, and he cannot get enough of her.

“Mmm,” Della purrs by his ear, pressing a kiss against the lobe, making his cock twitch with sensitivity. “That was fun,”

“ _Fun_ ,” he agrees, finally reopening his eyes and looking down at the mess. “Hold still darling, I don’t want any of this to get on my pants…”

His pants never made it off of his feet entirely. She’s been hungry, absolutely ravenous. He hadn’t been able to fully strip before she began to take control of his body. Beautiful Madeline. So meek and timid, yet she was a goddess in bed.

He is careful to clean her first with Kleenex that he’s placed inside of his desk since the semester had begun. It’s for quick cleanup and he is sure the cleaning lady probably thinks he is constantly sick, or a very dirty man. He concedes to both, actually. Della is making him sick in the head.

Once they are free of his seed, she moves off of his lap, steadying herself on the desk, trying to ignore the vertigo that renders her legs to a state of Jell-O every time she and Tom fuck. She feels him watching her, and picks up the pace, not too keen on his eyes lingering too long.

“Won’t you come home with me?” he asks hopefully, already prepared for the rejection that he knows will come. She hasn’t agreed to staying the night since their very first romp.

“No, Tom,” she sighs, pulling her bra back on, and slipping her jumper over her body. She looks for her panties and he holds them up irritably. Her brow quirks as she snatches them up from his hand. “I pretty sure I just fucked your lights out… a little enthusiasm wouldn’t kill, you know?”

“Why won’t you come home with me?”

“Why are you being such a child?” she sounds exasperated, and he winces at her comparison.

“I want to…I don’t know, I just want to _cuddle_ you, Del. Is it such a crime to want to cuddle my gir—“ he stops himself before he can say the word. Her eyes dart to him with angry warning flashing in the dark storm of brown.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing!” he snaps, now angry himself. “not like you give five _fucks_ , darling,”

He begins to pull his pants up and she approaches him, pulling her leggings up just the same.

“Don’t fuck around like this, Tom. Tell me what the fuck is wrong with you so I can get home… I am exhausted right now.”

He wants to take credit, but he is far too upset to tease her. He stares impassively.

“Do I mean anything to you, Del? Aside from a nice big cock for you to rub one off on?”

Her eyes narrow in disbelief.

“Are you crazy?” she asks, her voice low and calm, “ _you_ were the one who told me that you were my _lover_ and not my man! You can’t change your fucking mind just because you feel a little cheap! Would you rather it be _you_ walking out on _me_? Would it be ok then, Tom?”

He blinks, blue eyes filled with trepidation. He’s never seen her so furious before. She is magnificent like this. Her hair is wild from where he had tugged at it during their earlier fuck, and her skin is glowing.

“I may not be able to give you what you deserve, but you can let me try to give you something… let me hold you,” he steps closer to her, his voice closing as he witnesses her resolve crumble slowly. “Del…”

“Stop!” her voice is shrill. “You can’t give me these feelings and take them away. It’s unfair. I’m not prepared to… _feel_ like that again.”

He knows that she is referring to their first night together. When they fell asleep, tangled in each other, and then when she woke from her nightmare, he’d comforted her until she’d fallen back asleep.

“I can give you some semblance of intimacy if you allowed me to try. Where is my beautiful Del? You used to allow me to _be_ with you… now I feel like a cock for you to ride every so often.”

Della stares at his face, shame washing over her. He is being genuine. He looks like a scolded child for crimes he didn’t commit. Deep down, Della knew that refusing to _sleep_ with him was a method of keeping her emotions at bay. She decided after the first time they were together that she would beat him at his own game. She expected him to be there for sex and nothing else. She didn’t want to feel the burn of being thrown into the streets by that man after he’d used her.

But today, his crimpled brow and sad eyes told her a different story that made her want to wrap herself up within him and stay there for a while. A long, _long_ while.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers quietly.

“Oh, beautiful girl…” he counters, closing the gap between them, and tugging her close. He shuts his eyes once she was tucked into his arms. She smells different when he holds her like this. He isn’t sure how to explain it, but it is different. “ _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have been so harsh when we…first discussed this. I was trying to protect myself from wanting more with you. I wasn’t sure what you wanted. I’m sorry,”

“I didn’t want to feel cheap,”

“ _Del_ ,” he murmurs passionately against her ear, “you are _not_ cheap. You are beautiful, educated…hilarious when you feel like sharing your humor… you’re soft. I spend so many nights angry that I am not with you. If anything, I feel bloody cheap!”

She laughs softly, and lifts her head upwards, and brushes her lips against his. Her eyes shut and she absorbs the moment. Oh no. This feels too good. She imagines what it will feel like when it is taken from her. She clutches him tighter, and wishes she hadn’t. He immediately senses that something is off, and glances down at her face.

“You ok?”

‘No!’ She wants to scream from the top of her lungs. But she doesn’t. Instead, she nods her head and runs her fingers over the small indents in his shoulders where are visible, as his shirt still remains open and screwed. She gets on the tips of her toes, and presses soft kisses over each of them. Tom closes his eyes, drinking in the intimacy of what she is doing.

“Tonight…” she whispers, “after my shift, you come to _me_.”

 

____________________________________________________________________

 

Her flat embodies who she is perfectly. Much like him, she has books spilling everywhere—classics, romance, travel… it’s all reminiscent of her personality. She’s decorated in soft colors, and there is mismatched furniture that is perfect. In the living room, she has a cup of tea and homework that she has been working on prior to his arrival. He’s brought his toothbrush, pajamas, and wine.

He looks around while she finishes the last few sentences in her paragraph. He adores the time he has to study her life through her living quarters. It is very small. Her kitchen is pathetic and he worries that she isn’t able to make proper meals, but when he sees the way she fits around, he realizes that it is perfect for her.

“Done,” she says, exasperated. He looks from her shelf back towards her and frowns. She is so tired he wonders how she bears to keep her eyes open. It’s nearly three in the morning. The only reason that Tom is not sleeping is because he refuses to pass the opportunity to be with her tonight. He doesn’t know whether or not she will be so gracious with her space later on.

“Del, you’re bloody exhausted… come to bed,”

She looks up at him a bit testily, her eyes shifting suddenly unsure.

“Tom—listen, as much as I want you to do terrible things to me, I am sure you’d appreciate a responsive partner and I am not sure I can be that right now.”

He chuckles.

“Relax, darling… come to bed. We are going to _sleep_. That’s all.”

Her relief is immediate, and her eyes shine brightly. She is beautiful. Much to his surprise, she offers out a hand, and he helps her up, resisting the urge to kiss her. Kissing her would leave to energy exerting activities that they were both too tired for.

Inside of her small bedroom, he frowns at the size of her bed. No matter, it only means that he can cuddle closer to her to keep himself on the mattress. They strip on opposite sides. Della decides that her underwear and a t-shirt will suffice, and Tom slips on his plaid pajama pants.

“Bathroom is in there if you need it. I’ve brushed already,”

He grins.

“I could tell… you were very minty when you opened the door,”

That kiss had been so buttery and smooth. He swoons thinking about it.

Tom disappears into the bathroom and prepares himself for bed. When he comes out, Della is rubbing lotion onto her legs and arms. He feels excitement rush over him as he sees it as an opportunity to take care of her.

“Here… let me,”

Very patiently, he rubs lotion from his hands and into her skin. He finishes her left calf, and works the cream into her feet, drawing sweet moans of appreciation from her. He is chaste, and leaves her thighs untouched, and instead, motions her to move so that he back faces him. To her surprise, he slides his hand under her shirt and begins to massage her back.

By the time he finishes, she smells like a combination of lavender and sugar cookies and is a puddle of goo. She wears a loopy smile and kisses his cheek to say thank you for the gift.

“Thanks, Tom.”

“You’re quite welcome, darling.”

She slides into her designated spot on the right side of the bed while Tom takes the left. He spoons her and when his arms wrap around her midsection, he catches his breath as she wraps hers over top of his.

“I thought I was supposed to be holding _you_.”

He smiles softly.

“You _are_.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chatty chapter, but worth the read for the history and future reference. Cheers Xx.

 

She tosses again. Her fingernail’s bite into his belly and he howls suddenly, shaken from sleep by the pain that her grasp causes. He knows what is happening before it does. She’s having another nightmare.

3 weeks. He’s been waking up with her for 3 weeks now, interrupting the blissful post-intimacy period that lulled them both into a dreamy slumber. Della has bad dreams, though. No matter how closely he holds her, or rubs her back, it’s the same every night.

He doesn’t always wake her up. Some nights it is not so bad and she moves past the little tosses and turns into a more peaceful corner of her dreaming. He doesn’t like broaching the subject of her bad dreams, because there is something threatening and warning in her eyes whenever he does. The luxury of having a sleep-in lover has made him very content and he does not want to lose her.

Tonight it different, though.

“Del,” he shakes her gently when her thrashing becomes overwhelming. She gasps low and the sound is terrible to him. He wants to shelter her from the horror that she experiences in her sleep. “Del… darling, shh. You’re ok,”

Immediately, he pulls her closer to his side, his voice bogged down with sleep. He’s a mixture of concern and agitation. He wants to know what it is. He wants to shake her shoulders and force her to talk to him. The consequences are too frightening, though. They’ve made progress and steadily, she is opening up to him. But this must stop.

She begins to cry.

Tom has seen her cry once. She wept hard that time, and right now seems no different as she shakes violently, tears rushing down her sleepy face. It kills him. He hugs her tighter and she resists, trying to pull away, muttering a distant ‘no’ that doesn’t possess enough heart to take seriously. She doesn’t want him to let go.

“Oh, darling,” he admonishes softly, “oh, sweet girl,”

He let’s her cry. There is no point in trying to stop something that needs to happen. He comforts her, trying to listen carefully to her incoherent babbling. He runs a hand through her hair, noting that the nape of her neck is damp with sweat. His lips are planted in place at her temple as he rocks her softly, no words, only gentle cooing passing through his lips from time to time.

When her tears become sparse and sticky on her face, she pulls away from his naked chest and starts to climb out of his bed.

“I need to go home!” she says hysterically.

“No fucking way,” Tom counters firmly, “you are not climbing into a car like this, Del. I will not allow it.”

He stands, prepared to catch her. It looks as if her legs will give out any moment.

She looks at him, her face pain stricken. She’s pale in the dark, and her eyes are darker. She’s so beautiful and sad.

“I’m no good, you know? What are you doing here?”

He did not expect this.

“Don’t tell me what is good for me and what isn’t, Del.”

Her shoulder huddle and her crying continues.

“Tell me!” he demands,” tell me what you are hiding from me…” his voice drifts from a crescendo of anger and power to a soft desperate plea to this woman who was beginning to consume him in ways he’d tried to protect himself against. “It’s your dad. I hear you cry from him in the night. Did he hurt you?”

She pales and he knows that he has hit a nerve. The air is thick and cold. He wants to go back to earlier that evening when she’d contended to gentle sex, sitting in his lap while they rocked together into oblivion. It had been the most intimate sexual experience they’d shared. Afterward, he’d studied her face, propped up on an elbow, cradling his chin as he picked hair from out of her eyes, listening as she whispered softly in the dark.

Right now is so different. This moment and the stark truth, nearly naked from him to feast on, looms over them and makes his stomach cramp with dread of what she is going to tell him.

He needs to hear.

“You will never want to look at me again, Tom!” she cries, “This will be over!”

He approaches her and grasps her forearms. He leads her to the bed and they both sit, sinking into the soft mattress. His blue eyes don’t leave her. He’s hanging on very carefully, knowing that one false move can take her from him again.

“Del, I care about you. More than I should. You matter to  _me_  and that isn’t going away, my darling.”

She settles herself, her breathing odd at some points; sounding a bit straggled as if she is trying to prepare herself for his rejection. He holds her hands in his and continues to stare, unyielding.

“My dad was a  _killer_ , Tom. He  _killed_  someone!” her voice is a harsh whisper. She won’t look at his face and her distrust in him was what terrified him the most. “My mom… he killed her… he  _killed her_!”

He hadn’t expected the blow to the chest he receives as the words sputter from her lips in between salty tears that roll down her face. She looks miserable and so ashamed as if this was her terrible deed; her truth to testify. He doesn’t know what to say. His words are frozen inside of his throat, close to slipping out but not quite there.

‘Oh, beautiful girl!’ his mind internalizes painfully. His heart contracts with pain for her as she deteriorates in front of him. Suddenly, his vision is so clear and he understands all of her looks, and all of the hidden sadness that he’d always tried to trick himself about. Things made sense, and instead of the illuminating euphoria that one generally felt when something was discovered, he felt cold and hollow.

Her emotional issues were beyond what he could offer her help with. Comfort was not in the cards for someone who had suffered as much as Della had. He hurts for her. He hurts  _with_  her.

The tears spill down his face, dashing after each other, before he can stop them. She doesn’t peal herself away. Instead, she tucks the crown of her head under his chin, and shuts her eyes, silently sobs pouring out as Tom’s liquid pain spills onto her nude back.

The sound that finally comes out sounds like a straggled cry, and he decides soon after to forgo any type of verbal comfort. He can’t offer it. All he can do is continue to hold her tightly. He is crushing her against the expanse of his chest.

It is too much. He never expects this magnitude of drama or hurt and he finds himself wondering how someone so young could possible be the victim of something so tragic and horrid. He holds her closer to his body, trying to protect her from this invisible pain that torments her. Her nails dig into his chest on their own volition causing jolts of pain to shock him, but he doesn’t move. His chest heaves slightly as his anguish turns to soft sobs.

He knows that he is far gone. He made a commitment not to love Madeline Oakley and right now, he couldn’t think of any other emotion to explain why it hurt so bad to see her devastation and know the burdens that she carries with her. He knows now that he won’t give her up, and that this is more than whatever it has been. He wants to protect her heart and wrap himself around it like a vice.

They remain that way for nearly an hour. Della is too frightened to close her eyes again, and Tom refuses to succumb to his exhaustion, scared of the repercussions of leaving her alone in her grief. He doesn’t think he could sleep even if he tried. Her truths are too much of a shock for him to leave until later. He wants to know Della’s story, but he is terrified to go to that place with her tonight. Perhaps it is too soon and she needs more time to…

He isn’t sure what she needs time for. Clearly she isn’t adjusting well. He should have known from the day that she told him with impassivity that she was glad her father had died that something was very wrong. He feels foolish for all that had transpired in the midst of her emotional storm.

He makes a move to lay her back down, but she grabs hold,

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“No!” his voice is harsher than he intended. He tries to soften out, “I am going to make you some tea.”

“Brits and their tea,” her jest doesn’t meet her eyes, and Tom can’t force himself to smile at her small joke. He leans forward and brushes tender lips against her forehead. She’s sweaty and cool. He wants to suggest a bath, but he isn’t sure if it is the right thing to say. He found baths comforting, but perhaps they made her feel vulnerable.

He shuts his eyes momentarily, loathing his existence, and inability to formulate concise decisions. He feels like a failure in many ways.

When he finally tears himself from her side, he finds his joggers on the floor, and quickly covers himself. It is no secret that he is a domestic nudist, but right now he feels as vulnerable as Della looks. He doesn’t want his cock parading about on it’s own volition while his lover tries to cope with the fact that she is the orphan of a murderer and victim.

He feels like he may be sick.

He scolds himself. This certainly isn’t the time to practice introspection.  _He_  is unimportant right now. He stubs his toe on the way to the kitchen and hisses a bit more than he usually would. Fuck.

Once inside of the small space, he remembers all of the occasions that he’s fucked her up against the counters, or she has gobbled away at his cock while he prepares something. He doesn’t stir, finding it impossible to be aroused during such a vital time. He wonders if his thirst for sex is symptomatic of much larger issues.

He remembers the promise of tea, and begins to prepare the kettle, preferring the old-fashioned way that will buy him more time alone with his thoughts. He realizes how selfish he sounds, but he needs to devise a plan to help Della and he cannot do that without having clear, neutral ground to think. Being cooped up in the same bed with her, tending to a waterfall of saline wasn’t exactly conducive to that process.

He thinks about home spurred on by the scent of the special jasmine tea that his mum always prepared for him when he wasn’t feeling well or was moody. It was their “talking” tea. Tonight— _this morning_ , he prepares the tea the way he was taught growing up in England, something he usually forgoes for the sake of time these days. The process is therapeutic and for a moment he ponders teaching Della to make a proper brew. Perhaps it will help her the way it helps you, he thinks.

‘Idiot,’ his consciousness chimes in with an angry huff.

He’s stretched time as best as he could, and has even used a proper set from his cupboard. He wonders, as he walks very carefully down the hall and back into the bedroom, whether or not she will sense his nerves. Would she consider him a coward?

Della is dressed when he enters the room. For a beat, panic seizes him. Is he going to have to physically restrain her from leaving? Then he realizes that she is dressed in a pair of familiar grey lounge pants that she keeps inside of one of his drawers and that she is wearing a ratty old t-shirt from his rugby days. The sight makes his heart thump wildly and he feels sick in a  _good_ way. Love sick, maybe. She looks beautiful and natural in his clothing, like she is somehow marking her territory.

“Tea for two,” he chimes softly, and she scoots, making room for him to sit across from her with the tea creating a tactile barrier.

“Smells good,” she murmurs. Her voice isn’t the same. It sounds different usually, and he suspects that the crying has caused her to be crackly and deep. Tom finds her voice sexy. It’s never been high pitched and sugary like many of his female students. Her’s is sultry and alluring…

Still, absolutely  _nothing_  from his cock.

He silently scolds himself for the thought.

“My mother used to make this for me,” he tells her as he pours tea into both of their cups. “Sugar?”

“No,”

“Milk?”

“Just a bit,”

A satisfactory smile tugs at his mouth as she says this. During their time together, he has educated her on how to take a proper tea. He teases her constantly about the fact that she is ready for citizenship in the UK now.

Once her tiny white cup is hidden in her hands, and she takes the first sip, Tom steals a peak at her expression: solemn. She looks as if she is pondering and that scares him to death.

“I hope you don’t mind—“ she frets, looking down at the shirt.

“No!” he says quickly, “not at all… it looks better on you, Del.”

Silence makes the both of them uncomfortable. It has never been like this before.

“It happened when I was little,” she whispers, “but I still get nightmares.”

“Understandable,” he is trying his best not to imagine a tiny Madeline, with soft brown curls, and beautiful pale skin, thrashing around in her toddler bed, trying to cope with the loss of her parents. Was she there when it happened? Fuck. He thinks he’ll be sick again.

“I grew up with my aunt. Just me and Janey. She tried to keep me sheltered from it, but the older I got, the more curious I was. I started really digging when I was sixteen. That’s when I—“ she pauses, “that’s when I found pictures, and audio of the 911 call. It’s public record, you know,”

“ _Della_ ,” he admonishes softly, “why did you go looking for that stuff?”

She shrugs,

“I really don’t know, Tom. I can’t say why it was so…important to me, but I wanted information. I got more than I bargained for.”

“I’m sorry, Del. There are going to be a lot of things that you tell me that I won’t know how to relate to… but, I assure you, I feel the pain that you’re feeling…whether it is hocus pocus or not, I  _can feel it_.”

Her bottom lip wobbles, but she doesn’t make a sound.

“I know.”

“I’m with you.”

“I know.”

“The day—he  _passed_ …was it a relief?”

“He was  _executed_ , Tom,” she says with narrowed eyes. “I have had it marked in my calendar for a very long time. But after it…happened, I still felt…empty. Hollow. I didn’t feel the satisfaction that I expected to feel.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad person, you know?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs, sipping her tea. “I try to put it out of my mind, but the nightmares… you know they’re bad.”

He shuts his eyes and remembers all of the nights that she’s woken him in the middle of the night because of a bad dream. He’s never broached the subject until now.

“I’m sorry I never asked, sweet girl.” He looks ashamed, “I should have known.”

“Tom, you are acting very calm. I can’t believe you haven’t kicked me out,”

He snorts angrily,

“I can’t believe you think so  _little_  of me.”

She sets her cup down and he tenses, ready for her to leave any moment.

“Tom, you have zero emotional obligation to me,” she fidgets nervously, scratching her nails against each other and chewing her bottom lip like she was so inclined to do, “We established that. You keep pushing your limits and you’re going to end up hurting me. I’ve had enough fuckery in my life to last forever…  _don’t_  do this to me,”

Her words cause him physical pain. She is being candid, and he can tell that this doesn’t merely stem from her grief about her father. She’s thought about this carefully, and it makes perfect sense, too. It is why she didn’t want to spend the night with him. She said so herself. She was trying to design a barrier to settle between the both of them and keep her safe. She doesn’t want to be hurt.

How can he tell her that he thinks he might love her? That wicked, delicious fucking has become more… or perhaps is  _always_  was more? Should he inform her that he used to imagine her smile or think about what she would look like with her head in his lap, eyes closed as she napped while he read? His fantasies concerning her have not always been lewd. Naturally, sexuality was a major part of his attraction, but initially, it was her mind that intrigued him.

“I think we should talk,” Tom says, his voice low. It is her turn to freeze. She isn’t scared, though. She’s prepared for this day the first night he took her to bed. She’s been thinking of all the different scenarios in which he would end things. Sitting in bed with tea has never been one of them, but she observes that these circumstances are intricate, indeed.

“Ok,”

“Della….”

“It’s ok, Tom, just say it,”

“I think I am in love with you,” his words come out in a jumble, and they are nearly inaudible. He’s nervous, and stupid. How could he possibly expect her to believe that he fucking loves her when all they do is fuck? He nearly throws himself from the window when she remains wide-eyed and silent. “I lied in the beginning. I never wanted  _just sex_. I’ve always imagined more, Della. Maybe I am a sick fucker, but who cares? I  _craved_  your beautiful mind. There was something so singular about you…then you brought me that fucking rock back from Crete and I nearly fell all over myself. I nearly lost it at the launders,” he laughs a little psychotically, “I was furious for being for being so careless.”

“But you found it?” she whispers.

“Yes,” Tom’s eyes crinkle at the memory, “it was at the bottom of the washer. All of the thousands of years worth of history washed away… but do you know what I thought? At least I have it. It was so precious to me, Del. That you could be so caring and sweet.” He runs a hand through his curls, and stands up. His pacing is in the form of long strides that intimidate her short legs. She is mesmerized by his actions though, and even more so by his words. “I was trying to protect myself when we first made love. I needed to so desperately, but I didn’t want to scare you away with all of the muck that accompanies love. And I didn’t even  _know_  it was love. I think it was infatuation, but after tonight… it’s  _love_ , Della, whether you want it or not, I am in fucking love with you!”

He doesn’t know why he’s raised his voice. Perhaps passion has taken over, and demanded that he keep her. He looks crazed wit streaks of moonlight illuminating his handsome, tired face. His beard is scraggly and due for a trim. His eyes are bloodshot from his tears, and now his erratic behavior. Della is frightened and overwhelmed. She stands, and her small feet wince at how cold the floors are. She picks up the tea tray and carries it out of the room, leaving him standing behind, his jaw unhinged, and his heart at the bottom of his stomach. This is her rejection, then? Calm as ever.

He wants to fall at her feet and beg for an opportunity. He wants to swear that he will remain faithfully by her side while she works out the terrors in her head. He wants to hold her hand and brush her tears away until finally they don’t come any more. He’s crossed the fucking line so badly, but he doesn’t care because  _he wants her_.

When he hears footfalls, his spine straightens.

She comes back into the room and stands in front of him. Her eyes are warm and hold none of the past emotions that they have over these few weeks. There is something new gleaming in the cool cups of pudding, and he thinks—he  _hopes_  that it is trust.

She reaches out a hand and pulls him towards the bed. As per usual, he slides in first, taking his proper place, noting that the sheets on his side are cool just the way he likes. She slips in next, and finds her spot against the form of his body, and as if some scientific force has made it so, he instinctively folds himself around her.

Silence beats on for long moments. He can hear every breath she takes. In and out, in and out.

Finally, she speaks.

“I can’t say it back… not yet.”

He cuddles her closer and buries his lips in her hair as if to validate her statement.

“Not because I don’t, just because there is a lot going on, and when I do say it, I don’t want anything else in my head to eclipse what I mean.”

“I will say it for the both of us then.” He whispers softly, just above the shell of her ear, “I love you.”

She wonders how this will ever work.

He laces his fingers though hers and gives them an encouraging squeeze as if he can hear her thoughts, and he is trying to defend his heart.

‘Give us a chance,’ the words are never spoken, but they are felt.

She sleeps through the remainder of the early morning while her lover watches her, hope and terror spreading through him more potently as they hours pass.

“ _Please, God_ ,” he whispers as a final plea, before closing his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

After he tells her that he loves her, and finally knows what her dreams are about, they settle into a routine that is more intimate than before. She opens up in a way that he couldn’t really explain. It’s as if her self-preservation evaporates and now she is much more willing to be Della without a tense façade looming over either of them during times when they were together.

That’s often, too.

Despite knowing the dangers of being caught, Tom can’t stay away, and Della doesn’t want him to. She clings to him in a way that settles him. She calms him, though he is still very much on edge with what happened that night she woke up screaming.

Since that night, she agrees to see a therapist once a week. He doesn’t make a referral, because it is far too suspicious, but he makes dinner for her as a tradition after every appointment. She does her homework in his living room, and usually listens to soulful music. On those nights, she is usually very quiet, but he doesn’t try to penetrate her thoughts. He knows that the therapy must be hard for her. He doesn’t want to take the place of a professional, so he is open to listen, but never pries.

Nights are something beautiful now. Before, they were a mess of tangled limbs, and sweaty panting. Now Della knows how far his feelings reach, and she _holds_ him while they make love. It’s a feeling of completion that he has yet to experience in any of his previous relationships. It’s more. Della connects with him on an intimate level that makes him want to stay buried inside of her forever. She makes him feel safe and cherished…stable, even.

He isn’t sure how he makes her feel, because the only thing that he can go off of is the way she looks at him, and how she needs to be near him whenever they are together. She isn’t verbal, and he won’t fault her for that. She told him that it would take her time to clear her head and sort herself. He supposes that he should be grateful that she is present at all. He knows that things could have gone very differently that night, but she chose to stay, and he tries not to take that for granted.

On Tuesday, almost two weeks after, he thinks he may lose his head with jealousy when he sees her in class. She is seated in a back row wearing a smart pea coat and jeans. He doesn’t often see her dressed like that, but he knows she is working afterwards, a thought that makes him sick because he knows that she is paid to show off her ample ass and serve alcohol to lousy drunkards.

He can usually cope with losing a few hours of time, but tonight, his blood boils when her sees Terry Masterson seated uncomfortable close to his girl, with a sly smirk on his handsome face, and his chin tilted downwards as they chat quietly. He cannot gage Della’s reaction because he is too busy sussing up Terry. It’s a one-sided pissing contest. He wants to march across the hall and demand that he never speak to his girl again, but he knows better. He is acting like a jealous arse.

He fishes his mobile from his pocket, something he seldom does in lecture, and quickly types a message across the screen, pressing send before stowing in back in his trousers.

Della welcomes the distraction from Terry, who has made the decision to sit next to her today of all days. He’s being rude and continuing their chat even when Tom calls the class to head. She wants him to shut his trap.

‘Smart girls don’t let foolish boys chat them up, Del.’

No byline, but she recognizes the number. Tom doesn’t text her very often; emergencies only, really. She could almost hear the distaste dripping his tone as she read the message. A frown settles against her mouth and her eyes tip upward, expecting to see him staring her down. Instead, he is at the head of the classroom, messing with the projector, a set jaw and a line on his mouth.

‘Oh, Tom,’ she thinks wickedly, ‘what a jealous bastard you are,’

She says nothing in reply, and places her phone in the bag under her feet. She tilts her head toward Terry, and a slow, seductive smile caresses her face, and she enjoys the exuberant feeling of exploiting Tom’s jealousy.

She doesn’t know what they talk about, but they chat during the entire lecture. She makes it a point to provide him with a dead number when he asks for it at the end of class. She knows that she shouldn’t have led him on, but she doesn’t no how to avoid it when he asks. Hopefully he won’t try and call or text right away. That would be an uncomfortable conversation to have.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

There is still time before her shift tonight. She wants to pop into her lover’s office and _smell_ him. She thinks about how strange it is for something so small to comfort her, but it does. She could hold him for hours and never be dissatisfied. The thought calms her as she makes her way to the basement where he’s located. They’ve spent precious time in his office, rarely fucking, but just _being_ next to each other. It’s soft and intimate, and feels wonderful after everything that happened a few weeks ago. 

It was a few good minutes before Tom shows up, looking anything but thrilled, the set jaw from earlier still in place. If he is surprised to see her, it doesn’t show in the least.

“Hello to you to,” she murmurs snarkily, walking past him and into the office as he holds the door open. Jealous Tom is still a gentleman.

“Good evening, _Madeline_ ,” he greets in a long drawl.

“Thomas,”

“So will it be drinks and a fuck, or dinner and a fuck?”

“Tom!” she scolds angrily, her cheeks blushing.

“For you and Terry, I mean.”

“Don’t be an ass, Tom. He sat next to _me_ , not the other way around.”

Tom’s nostrils flare as he flings his briefcase across the room, hitting his desk.

“And I presume you give you number to everyone who sits by you?”

Della laughs in disbelief.

“You’re fucking crazy…I gave him a wrong number, you idiot. He asked for it, and I felt too cornered to refuse. Think about _that_ when you’re whacking off tonight,”

She turns on the heel of her shoe and fumes, prepared to storm out in indignation. How dare he make such ugly presumptions? She doesn’t make it to the door. Well— _out_ the door. Before she can think, or sling another insult, he has her shoved against the door, shoulders to the wall, hands pressed firmly on either side of her head to ensure she goes no where.

“What are you doing?” she growls, “I have to get to work,”

“Fuck your job. I need to fuck you right now… show you who’s cock you belong to.”

She makes a move to shove him off of her, but her attempts are futile as his words cause her body to betray her almost instantly. Her cunt aches to be filled. Though she was with him last night, there is something sexy about dark Tom. He fucks harder, and more ruthlessly than normal. Her orgasms are fast and sloppy, but it’s more than ok.

Before she can protest again, she digs her fingers into his scalp and pulls him down for a searing kiss. He slides his hands under her bottom and lifts her up, reinforcing her position against the heavy wooden door. His hands squeeze her ass painfully and she breaks the kiss to cry out.

When he realizes he’s hurt her, he brings her away from the door and wraps his arms around her as her legs maintain leverage around his waist. He holds her tightly, apologizing. He was too rough. He’s _always_ scared of being too rough.

“Darling—I’m so sorry,” he agonizes.

“Tom—“

“Please… I’m sorry, Del… please,”

“Tom!” she snaps, taking hold of his face and forcing him to look at her. Tepid blue eyes meet compassionate brown ones.

“It’s ok,” she presses his forehead against his, “shh.”

A few moments pass and she wonders how he can lift her that long without hurting himself.

“I need you to fuck me…” she tells him, “maybe not against the door, but somehow, and it needs to be fast. I’m horny and it can’t wait.”

His self-loathing quickly turns to lust as Della tells him what she needs. She’s always vocal about her desires and to imagine a horny Della, grinding against anything that will give her friction just because she couldn’t have his cock, quickly chases his deprecation away.

“Bend over the desk, pull down your jeans and knickers,” he orders. She moves obediently as he locks the office door and tugs at the handle to make sure they are safe from prying eyes. Turn back around, he nearly cums just then. She’s in position, bent over for him, naked from the waist down, her greedy little face grinning from ear to ear as if she anticipates how delicious his cock will feel once he’s inside of her.

“Quick,” she demands.

He heads over, unbuckling his belt, the sound echoing through the silent room. She sucks in her breath as crunch from his zipper indicates his cock is free. She doubts that he needs any prep work. Tom is the equivalent to a walking erection. As much as she enjoys sucking his cock, he rarely needs anything to get him hard.

“Are you wet?” he asks garishly. 

“Yes!” she snaps, “now fuck me!”

She doesn’t have to ask again. He slides inside of her warmth and throws his head back as her muscles tighten around him. She is fucking heaven. He starts to pump and build a rhythm that is punishing for her flirtation and attempts to make him jealous. Her whines spur him on, and he slams his hips into her and cries out as he spills his seed inside of her, her full name falling from his lips, his eyes shut tight. 

She was _so_ fucking close.

Gritting her teeth, she pulls herself off of him, pearly liquid sliding down her thigh, giving her that queasy feeling that it always did. She’d started the pill after they got together, and Tom preferred to go bareback rather than wrap his cock up in latex.

When he comes down from his post-coital high, he realizes that she has yet to reach her orgasm. The though is deplorable to him, and he quickly moves to irradiate any thoughts in her mind that might depict him as a selfish lover.

He drops to his knees, still weak from the exertion, and though she attempts to stop him, he refuses to relent. He holds her thighs firmly and lowers his head, finding her center that his dripping with his cum. He’s turned on by the taste of himself on her and groans as he takes her nubs between two teeth and nibbles. She cries out and suddenly convulses. He continues to lap her up through her explosive orgasm, and the pride that he has restores itself.

“That was easy,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue down the length of her one last time. She only nods, her eyes wide, and pupils blown to smithereens at how wonderful that felt. She pants like a wild animal and tries to keep herself steady as he lifts himself to his feel once more so that he is looming over her. She needs comfort. She usually does after something so raw, so even though the clock is ticking as an ever-present reminder of their obligations, he gathers her close and buries his face in her neck. He whispers soft, incoherent words, and waits until he can no longer feel her heart beat pounding against his chest. Then he lifts his mouth and kisses her gently, sweetly.

“Thank you,” her gratitude is tender and makes him warm.

“I love you, Del,”

She holds him tighter as he say this, each time a bit more precious that before. How fucked their circumstances were, yet how perfect he was for her.

She needs to go. She says so. He promises to pick her up tonight and then they can eat dinner together. He promises that she’ll cum tonight by the grace of his cock, and afterwards, he cuddle her for as long as they can both stay awake.

‘Promise?’ she asks.

‘Promise,’

 

__________________________________________________________

 

It's excruciatingly late and she can't sleep. Tom is entirely worn out, and is snoring softly on his side of the bed. They've come to his place tonight after she requested pizza from a shop that is closer to his area than hers. His home feels very familiar to her these days, and she doesn't mind being there as opposed to her personal space.

Careful not to wake him, she slides out of bed and tip toes carefully through the dark room. Since they've been together, he's made an effort to clean his clutter and put his books in places where she wouldn't slip over them. She's grateful after a ton of bruised pinky toes. 

His apartment is homey. She decides to chose a book from his vast collection and sits on the sofa, tucking her legs under her, snuggling into the soft, worn leather. Even though she is sleepless, she feels more content than she's felt in a while. Therapy had been cleansing, and having Tom to care for her was even more so. 

Sighing, she opens the front cover of 'A Farewell to Arm,' and was surprised when five very thin slips of paper fell out of the first few pages. Her eyes narrow and she picks one of them up,

'Tom,

It's rainy in London. I miss you. You're mum and I had tea last weekend and we chatted about things. 

I wish you were here. Sometimes I am tempted to buy a ticket and surprise you in America. But I 

still support what you're doing, and will faithfully wait until you return. I still wander by the apartment

from time to time. I hope you're staying warm and that you get the chance to call soon. I miss our naughty

conversations. 

All my love,

Nina'

Della's stomach falls, acid eating her up inside as she reads each line of the letter. Quickly, she chucks it aside and reads through the rest.

'It's lonely here,'

'I miss making love to you,'

'I'm excited to start our lives together.'

'Thank you for loving me, Tom.'

By the very last line, she was fuming. Her heart pounds fast inside of her chest as disappointment crashes through her. How fucking stupid could she have been? He's had another woman at home all of this time-- a  _Nina_. She loves him, and waits for him patiently. She feels sick and promptly races to the garbage pin where the pizza from earlier makes a reappearance. Tears threaten to blur her vision. She hears Tom from the other room, getting up, groaning. She feels sick all over again and heaves once more. 

"Del?" he calls groggily, standing nude in front of his bedroom door. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and steadies herself. He's delirious. "Baby, what's wrong?"

She says nothing, and charges past him, quickly gathering up her clothing and dressing so fast she feels faint. He's driven her. Fuck. No matter. She'll dip into her savings for a cab. No fucking way she is getting back into his car so he can give her the fucking party lines. 

"What the hell is wrong?" he demands, his voice sobering up. He's tired and being thrust from his sleep into a full on crisis pisses him off.

"Shut the fuck up, Tom!" she screams at him. "Don't say another fucking word!"

"What--" but before he can finish the question, her hand collides with his cheek, a loud, audible smack resounding through the room as she slaps him. 

"YOU BASTARD!"

"Della, what the  _fuck_ is wrong with you?" he shouts, capturing her wrists as she tries to slap him again.

"Let me go right now or I will scream this fucking place down."

He lets her go as if he's touched hot coals. Her demeanor is like fiery ice and terrifies him. She's changed since their earlier intrigues when they took their time making love, and he drifted to sleep with his lips against her shoulder.

"What's wrong, Della?" he asks again, his voice watery and pleading. 

She pulls her top down and finds her purse by his bedside. 

"I had  _one_ condition during this, Tom," she cries, her resolve crumbling, "I didn't want to share you. I didn't want to be some cheap whore you could fuck and leave, and that is  _exactly_ what I am,"

"I don't understand," Tom says desperately, trying to find a rational side to this. Her tears make his heart physically ache. 

"Was it hard leaving her in London?"

His face pales and he knows exactly what has happened. Silence encases the room, and confirms her suspicions. It's her worst fear come to life. 

"This is why I couldn't love you."

He's too stunned to capture her at the door.

She leaves, the door slamming shut, happiness leaving with her. He stands, nude and vulnerable, his blood feeling cold as he pictures so many different things. 

Della.

He's lost his Della. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

He is a shadow man.

Weeks have gone by and he has had to endure watching Della from the shadows, stalking her in a way he’s previously fantasized about before they became lovers, and before he declared his love for her.

He watches now.

She has denied all contact. He knows the stakes are high, and that they both have so much to lose. He doesn’t care about himself. He wants her to succeed, though. After everything has played out, it’s still about Della.

Tom thinks it is comical. That night, after hearing a dial tone anthem for two straight hours, he fell back into his bed imagining that he would clear the air, and set things straight. Then he and his precious girl would make mad, passionate love, and things would be right once again. That didn’t happen, though.

She was a clever girl, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she had prior experience on how to keep wolves at bay, because she eluded him at all costs, only allowing a whisper of her presence to be known, and even then, it was in the midst of lecture where he had a role to play. She knows that he won’t be stupid and use her schooling as leverage, but what she doesn’t know is how desperate he is becoming.

She consumes his every thought. Every moment of the day triggers a memory of Della. Tom feels that he is going mad. His behavior becomes erratic and irrational. He wants to consume Della in a very different manner now. He wants to swallow her whole, and keep her inside of him.

He _is_ crazy.

He writes her a letter everyday, begging her to see him so that he can explain the mishaps. They all bounce back to his mailbox. He’s too intelligent to send anything digital. Della scorned is a fearsome thing indeed. Three days after leaving him in the apartment, nude and devastated, she sent a formal letter of warning that said if he tried to make an physical contact with her outside of the lecture hall, she would seek an order of protection and slap him with a harassment lawsuit so fast his head would spin.

He’d been furious.  At first, he’d considered barreling over to her place and kicking in the door, demanding that she listen to him. He knows he must have lost his mind as he drove up to the lot outside of her apartment building and paced, trying to decide whether or not to go in. Eventually, he calmed himself, got into his car, and drove home. He wept when he got there. Agony ripped through him as he thought of how things had been and how they had been on the path to sustainable happiness. It had been a first for him. Now it was gone.

Tom was no quitter, but when he saw how impassive she was sitting in his lecture hall, devoid of the emotion that had coursed through him so violently, he made a choice to no longer pursue her.

The Della saga ended.

 ____________________________________________________________________

The last he saw her was on the day on her final. It was two weeks before May and she wore the same summer dress and cardigan she’d worn the first time he’d made love to her. She was thinner, her cheeks more defined, but she was still enchantingly beautiful and for a moment, all of his manifestation has disappeared, and he’d become her prisoner again. She looked up for a brief second, and the pain that washed over her was so evident that he felt like a fool for thinking her in different. She’d been hurt. Even if it was not direct, she’d still suffered badly.

Her eyes were off of him and back on her exam sheet in an instant.

When she turned her test in, he wished her luck like he did each of his students, and she didn’t spare a word for him.

After all of the students left, he sat there in the empty hall. It was late, and the clock ticked on, echoing through the silent room. He remembered the first day he’d stepped into this class and how he hadn’t noticed the shy girl in the third row, scribbling away as he talked about the syllabus. When Della had looked up at him that was when he noticed just how dark and beautiful her eyes were and how she nibbled her lip when she was deep in thought.

He’d been attentive from that point.

Now everything was done.

London, July

“Em!” a smooth baritone scolds, “you’re dicking around! Were supposed to be unpacking!”

“Oh, sod off. This is _so_ exciting, Tom! This place is much more spectacular than your last flat. Look at the windows!” her voice becomes squeakier as she ganders around at his new home—his _permanent_ home. He decides when he sees the place on the market that he wants it. He invests the majority of his savings, and now he has a steady job, and a beautiful home. Even in its state of empty, he enjoys it immensely. It’s different from his apartment in America. This place settles him. It emulates him.

Though he acts annoyed, he secretly enjoys Emma’s presence. He’s been back in town less that two months and she’s taken advantage of every moment. When she saw him at the airport, she confessed that she never expected to miss him the way that she does. He finds the confession endearing. It’s nice to be loved so unconditionally.

“I’m going to order in. Italian good?”

“Mmm! Yes!” she agrees.

Tom rummages through his old lists of take-away joints and finds one for Luigi’s, a mom and pop shop that he’d adored since he’d discovered it nearly ten years before fresh out of uni. He adores the place, and the people that own it. After arriving back in London, he immediately sought them out and had gained a pound or two gorging on their delicious pastas.

“What do you want, E?”

“Anything,” she calls from the adjoining room where she is sorting through boxes. He makes the decision to order a pizza and side of ziti. They’ve worked incredibly hard, and he is starving.

Tom makes the call, orders the food, and then gets back to his sister in unpacking boxes.

London has done him a world of good. He feels as if he can finally breathe again. Shortly after his classes ended in April, he seeped into a terrible depression trigged when he lost Della. He thought that he was in love with her, and to have her cut from his life in such a cruel, harsh way has caused him unimaginable pain. After a few weeks of hating the man that he’d become, Tom decided to move away and start fresh.

Now he felt exuberant. Even in dreary London, things were brighter. He ran every morning, and made himself fresh pots of tea. He read in the windowsill, and walked in the parks. Everything felt nearly perfect.

At least that was what he tells himself.

There was still a little place in his heart that misses her.

Tom is sure that Madeline Oakley was the first woman that he ever loved fully.

When he compares their quasi relationship to those he has had in the past, he knows that the fire and compassion that came along with Della was different.

“Hello,” Emma sang, trying to get her brother’s attention. Tom looks up at her strangely, “where’s your head, brother mine?”

“Sorry,” he shrugs sheepishly, “I suppose this is still a shock to me. It’s good to be home,”

Emma is six years his junior, and very beautiful. She works as a theater actress and Tom supports her endlessly, adoring the woman that she is. They’d always been incredibly close, even though he distinctly remembers not wanting his parents to bring her home when she was first born.

“Thanks for being here,” he tells her, his lips raised in a smile that touches his blue eyes. Emma grins,

“Not at all, broomhead.”

__________________________________________________________________________

 

The park is the perfect place to read. She decides this after moving into her cramped hostel just outside of London. Though she is committed to the quaint little room, she enjoys breathing London air and there is something about the park that incites her to return almost daily, a book and coffee in hand, and a jacket on her back in case the weather turned ugly.

She breaths a deep, cleansing breath, nimble fingers turning a page while bright eyes survey her surroundings. There is a set of identical twins playing with a puppy nearby. Runners pass by on occasion with heavy breathing, and determined faces. There is a painter a short distance away, immersed in the canvas in front of her. It’s all so beautiful, and she is apart of the scene.

Della always knew that London was the place that she wanted to be. There was something wonderful about its gateway to history that always left her feeling a little lightheaded. When she applied for a working visa and went through a hellish process of trying to get there, London had almost slipped from her grasp. She’d cried several times, thinking herself to be a fool for ever imagining that this beautiful city could be her place of residence.

But it was.

Even if her hostel was expensive, and she was poorer than she’d ever been, she would rather be that then stuck in her hometown, dreaming of adventure. There wasn’t anything left for her in the states. Beautiful Janey had tucked a large sum of money into her hands and told her to fly.

She’s never felt so free.

Shortly after legalities were handled, she got a job at a local restaurant. It was purely accidental. She’d been enjoying a slice of pizza and a coffee one day, a line of frustration on her face, and a little old woman told her that she was beautiful and that her beauty could bring their tiny restaurant good luck. It had been a true blessing. The wages she earns from the restaurant pay her rent at the hostel, and give her enough money left over for food and transportation. She dreams of writing a book. Maybe she’ll take a class or two just to see how different it would be.

Right now, she is content to feel _so_ lucky.

__________________________________________________________________________

 

“Pizza margarita and ziti… Della, beautiful Della! You take this one. The boy is handsome. You make _beautiful_ babies!”

Della nearly chocks on the water she is sipping as her boss, Vincenzo, or Vinny, addresses her all of a sudden. Vinny doesn’t generally talk much to her, and she figures that it’s because she is so new.

The shop is filled to the brim with Italians. The drives, cooks, waiters—everyone is Italian with the exception of a few including her. They are very personal, and lovey. Her self-esteem skyrockets during the period that she’s worked with them. They call her Bella Della and smile all of the time. She makes pizza, delivers food, and waits on customers. She is content with her place in their little family.

“Beautiful, huh?” she grins at Vinny, blush still heavy on her cheeks. He smiles at her in a way that makes her fall in love with him.

“Very beautiful. Blue eyes like the sea!”

Della giggles, ignoring the tremor that ran through her. Blue like the sea. What a statement. Perhaps she is just nervous that he boss has suggested that she make babies with a beautiful customer. Her stomach feels a little off at the thought. Vinny is crazy.

She has a scooter. Janey’s money paid for it. When it rains, she takes the metro, or the train. She likes the feeling of riding the scooter. It is liberating. There is a special attachment on the back that carries pizza boxes and bags of food. There is a GPS navigation system that tells her where she needs to go. It’s been difficult navigating through London, but she likes to explore.

She stows the beautiful man’s food on the back, and zips off through London, happy to be.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

 

A short while later, the chimes from his doorbell sounds and Tom jumps to his feet, his joggers and ratty red shirt draped over his body, and bare feet padding along the wooden floors. He stops off at the kitchen table where his wallet is resting, and he fishes out a few notes for tip. His stomach growls as his brain registers that it is time to eat. All of the physical exertion of the move has made him ravenous.

He slid the locks out of place, and opens the door, a cheerful smile plastered on his face, slightly theatrical and slightly genuine for this messenger of food. When the petite woman standing in a yellow print and a ‘Luigi’s’ t-shirt tucked into the waistband come into his line of sight, he nearly faints with surprise and dread. His belly clenches, no in hunger, but in sheer horror.

“Della?”

The tiny woman before him holding a plastic bag and a large cardboard box is clearly just as shocked. Her tempered brown eyes are glazed over in confusion and something else.

“Tom?”

“You—you’re in _London_?”

Dolt. He chides himself immediately. Della always had plans to come to London during the summer. At one point she had even thought about moving in order to be close to the historical places that she was so desperate to study. He never imagines that this is the way their paths would cross. The last time he saw her this close and with this level of emotion on her face, was the day she told him to fuck off while he clutched a sheet around his naked body. She’d slapped him and had been so angry and hurt it was difficult to illustrate those memories.

Her eyes close and it is transcendent. It looks as if she is reaching within, trying to find something lost. His chest fires up with so much hope that it nearly brings him to tears.

“Del,” the nickname he gave her is a soft caress, “It is so good to se—“

“Tom? I’m bloody starving!” Emma’s voice from the hall and automatically, his heart seizes up in fear. Della’s eyes shift from Tom to the woman who has just arrived in the doorframe, dwarfed by the man in front of her. Her heart rips open. Nina. This is the woman that Tom loved. She’d spent many nights putting a face to the name. She never imagined such a beautiful blonde woman, though.

“Here,” she murmurs, thrusting the food into his hands, “have a nice day.”

“Della! Wait!” he calls, but she’s already down the path and pulling her helmet on, and in an instant, her little scooter zips down the path, and she is gone. Tom feels the familiar despair seep through his veins and his face falls.

“T… what the hell was that about?”

“Oh god,” he whispers, “oh fucking god!”

“Tom!” Emma scolds. “What’s going on?”

Tom turns; his eyes are wild as he clutches the pizza box in his hands, “that was her… that’s my Della. Oh god, oh god,”

__________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Rain starts to beat down on the windows. Tom nibbles at the food but doesn’t have the heart to eat. Emma demands to know who Della is, and he told her. He slept with his student and fell in love with her. He feels shame and wants to explain to his sister that Della is different. She is very special to him. He doesn’t though. He can’t. He’s too hurt.

He spent a while trying to let her go. When he was finally able to cope with the loss, he felt as if he was learning to walk again. When he moved back home, and decided not to sign his contact with the university, he’d sincerely hoped that he would leave all of the memories behind, and start fresh. He never imagined that she would be here, and if she were, he never guessed that he would see her. London was vast. The chances were so slim.

He questions fate. It takes everything that he is not to run after her. He doesn’t care about the rain. He only wants to kiss her again and see if she tastes the same.

“She wasn’t sleeping with me for grades, Emma,” he says, no longer willing to be subject to her disdain. “She was the best in her class.”

“It’s just unlike you,” Emma says, sipping her wine.

“I know. I fucked up…but I was in love with her.” He rubs his eyes, “I _am_ in love with her… I tried to let her go, E… I can’t.”

“Tom… she doesn’t…. it doesn’t look _good_ for you.”

“I know,” his eyes are pained, “it’s a fucking misunderstanding… it’s stupid. I hate myself every day for it.”

Emma reaches out a hand and takes her brother’s hand.

“You know I support your choices. I know mum will have a bit of trouble with the _start_ of the relationship, but we know that you’re soft, T…”

He’s too gloomy to respond to her tease. It sobers his sister.

“Go.” She says.

Tom looks up at her.

“Don’t be _stupid_. Go, Tom!”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As requested by you lovely people, another chapter. I'm working on the next one that will contain Della and Tom's reunion. Thanks to everyone who has left comments. You are beautiful people.

 

Fio, Vinny’s wife, finds her in the storage room amongst the ingredients, small simpers and shaking shoulders to indicate the tears that were rolling off of her face. Fio closes the door and it clicks shut, only making Della cry harder. The dislocation that she feels is consuming. The floodgates have opened and she is finally honest with herself about what has happened. She’s hurt. She is still _hurt_.

“Della…what is wrong, beautiful?”

Della looks up. Her face is pinched.

“I’m a fool, Fio,” she whispers, her voice small and laced with anguish.

“Did something happen?”

Fio sounds every bit of a concerned mother. Her children, Gabriella and Sam work in the shop after school. Their heavy Italian features are accessorized with English accents. Fio is very protective of her children, and Della thinks that her young age has thrown her into that mix.

“No,” she says softly, small hiccups stalling any other words, “I’m ok, Fio.”

She makes a small sound of disdain and furthers into the room, placing a small rough hand on Della’s shoulder.

“Tears like that come from one place, bella.” Her thick accented voices washes over Della and makes her shiver, “they’re tears from your heart.”

Fio comforts her, rubbing her back and whispering things in Italian right above her ear. Her voice is calm and smooth. She doesn’t expect Della to pour her heart out with truths; she simply exists for the young girl to weep. At some point, Vinny stumbles in, and with a sharp glare from his wife, he ducks out with a mumbled apology.

Fio has Sam drive Della home instead of her taking her scooter. She thinks that it is too dangerous in her current emotional state. She tells her to have a cup of tea and go straight to sleep. She also tells her to take the next day off, too. Fio is so warm, but firm, that Della doesn’t protest. She’s far too emotionally weak to do so, anyway.

When Sam walks her to the door of her hostel, she thanks him politely and slips inside. She doesn’t share the room. It’s small, and has just been redone, but it still had a stale smell to it that makes her belly feel hollow. Tonight that feeling is coupled with the agony of the Tom wound reopening. She’s worked very hard trying burn her out of her life. The first few days after she’d discovered Nina’s letters had been the worst. She was sure that she was going to cave and fall back into his arms. She thinks that she wanted to. For the period after her anger diminished, depression and loss set in and the longing to burry her face into his neck and breathe in the scent that she was so attached to.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

She doesn’t cry.

She expects to be an emotional mess, but she isn’t. She strips her clothing and takes a bath. There is not option of a shower in her bathroom. Just a tiny cramped tub. She has to keep her shampoos and washes on the floor next to it, because there is no space to hold the up on the edges. The water is scalding hot, though, and that makes all bad thoughts vanish. She shuts her eyes and thinks about the way he looked. There were bright pink patches on his cheeks from his natural ruddiness. His hair was longer and curlier. His face was clean-shaven without the scruff.

Della thinks of the way that Tom’s scruff used to serve as a pleasure device for her when it scratched the insides of her thighs or her bare nipples. She sighs with frustrations. Tom was a magnificent lover. His cock never failed to bring her there. Losing him was hard, and the sudden loss of constant sex was also difficult to cope with.

She runs her hand across her nipples, but it isn’t the same.

She flits through her favorite sexual memories of Tom.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

_“Say it, Della,” the low growl penetrated Della’s thoughts as she slipped into the white-hot oblivion that stole away her conscious thoughts and rationality. “I won’t let you have it until you say it!”_

_Domineering Tom._

_It was new to their sexual relationship. Once he realized how intimately she trusted him, he unleashed this side slowly but surely._

_Right now his cock was nestled deeply inside of her cunt. He wasn’t moving, and she was uncomfortably full, needing the fluid motions of his thrusts to finally bring her to orgasm. Her body was slowly giving out. He’d bended her every way he could imagine, and now she was desperate to cum and recover._

_“I love your cock!”_

_Deep down, Della wondered whether or not he was trying to compensate for her refusal to confess her feelings with that particular mantra, but presently, she was far too gone to question it._

_“I-I-LOVE YOUR COCK!”_

_He slammed into her a final time, her climax earth-shattering as the world momentarily went black. Tom swore out needy, ripping his cock from her cunt and stroking it once, twice…_

_“FUCK, MADELINE!”_

_Hot spurts of cum coated her belly and chest, the streams thick and white. He panted, collapsing, nearly crushing her before her caught himself on his fists, avoiding her cum coated belly._

_“Jesus,” he swore gruffly. “Della? Darling, are you with me?”_

_For a moment she couldn’t respond, and had to fight her way to the surface of reality, not wanting to scare Tom from his post coital high._

_“Nghh,” the sound that passed her lips didn’t make a lick of sense, but he was satisfied._

_“Darling,” he whispered after a few seconds. “You can’t sleep yet, my love… you’re a mess.”_

_“You did it,” she whispered, refusing to open her eyes. He grinned and swallowed hard, leaning back on his haunches to observe his handiwork. Della looked beautiful in the aftermath of their bliss. He leans down and kisses a path of bare skin unblemished by his passion._

_“I love you,”_

The memory of his declaration rips her from her the pleasurable trance that she’s lingered in for the past few minutes as she remembers how wonderfully full Tom always made her feel. Those three small words are like a slap to her face. They take her breath away. Tom loved her. He _loved_ her.

No one ever had.

No tears well in her eyes, she only feels ice in her chest. How could this have happened?

 ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Two days later and Della was making the familiar path to work. She’d taken the train after forgetting to fill up on petrol the previous day. She doesn’t mind. The long ride gives her time to think. She’s spent the last few days trying to cleanse her mind, and this morning, all she can think about is Tom and the semester she spent as his lover.

It makes her a little sick. He had a Nina. To think that a man could be so deceptive and to do it so well terrifies her and any future thought about love. He told her he loved her and the letters from Nina also conveyed they same endearment. It makes her question trust and if there was purity in romance.

She truly cringes when she thinks about her secret that she bore to him. He was so tender and helpful. He’d held her and soothed her in the night when she woke terrified. Was it all a rouse? How could anyone man be _that_ good.

‘Fool,’ she scolds herself angrily.

She stares harder out of the window trying once more trying to strip the memory and idea of her professor out of her mind. London was supposed to heal her; to help her start _fresh_. She just needed to be strong.

The restaurant was busy on lunch prep when she arrives. Fio doesn’t make a big ordeal about her return, she simply gives her a soft smile that translates her ear if needed. Since the Sam and Gabriella are both in summer classes, the remaining staff has to pick up slack for the hands. Della likes it best like this. Everyone is very focused and hone in on their individual tasks.

She’s working in the kitchen when Vinny comes in. He’s transparent. The Italian in him never allows him to conceal his emotions. It one of the things that Della loves about him. She always knows where she stands and it feels good.

“Welcome back, bella Della.”

She offers a tiny smile.

“Hi, Vinny.”

“I have some questions for you…”

She freezes, the undercurrent of his tone chilling her. This is about Tom. She knows it. Della wipes her hands down on her apron and pivots so that she is making eye contact with her employer.

“What are they?”

“Since you deliver pizza to that beautiful boy, he come here every day and sit in the same booth waiting. He pretend to eat, but I know better,” his accent is thick and Della shuts her eyes for a moment, “Fio tells me not to ask, but I’m gonna.” He moves a little closer, “is he waiting for you?”

“Yes.” Her voice is foreign to her. It’s a soft whisper and has been stripped of any confidence that she’s gained since moving here.

“Beautiful girl, are you in trouble?”

“No!” it’s sharper than she intends, “Sorry… no… he—we knew each other back in America. Friends.”

He gives her a look that is accompanied by a slick grin. It twists her stomach up in knots.

“I know love, Della. Italians know love.”

“Vinny, I’m not in love with that man.”

“If you aren’t in love with him, than he is in love with _you_. I see it in those eyes, Della. He is in pain.”

It makes her angry. She wants to scream at the top of her lungs for Vinny to shut up. Shut the _fuck_ up. He knows _nothing_. He is making assumptions based off of a beautiful little fantasy and that perfect idea of love wasn’t a fortune that everyone was afforded with.

Her face burns with indignation and she wants to flee once more, but instead, she breathes softly and tries to maintain composure. She doesn’t blame Vinny, she blames Tom and all of this hurt he’s stacked on her shoulders.

“Thank you, Vinny. Thank you for concern.”

He pauses and a long, pregnant silence fills the air. This is the Vinny special. Della sees him do this to Sam all of the time. It’s his way of relaying disappointment in a very fatherly manner.

“We’re a family here. You are our family now, Della.”

Suddenly she wants to cry.

“Thanks, V.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

For some reason, she’s prepared to see Tom. The bomb that her employer drops on her earlier prepares her to come face-to-face with him. When lunch comes around, she’s works the floor and finds solace in being with new faces and enjoys witty European humor. There is a familiar elderly couple that requests her, and chats with her about her adjustment to the “new world.” She adores this couple. They always save her a slice of their margarita pizza and leave her an unnecessarily large tip for her _dreams_.

Despite the melancholy that she felt, her mood remains chipper through the lunch hustle. Apart of her knows that it is due to the fact that Tom could walk in at any moment, and she hates the idea of him thinking that she’s miserable. She wants to embody the strong woman that she’s fought so hard to be. A cock won’t change that. She refuses to allow it to.

He doesn’t come in.

Not even during dinner. Every time the phone rings and an order comes in, her heart beats hard in her chest. Fio has Sam running them and they are strangely slow. She feels relief sweeping through her during the last hour before closing. Only a few customers are dotted through, mostly dates staring at each other with mooney eyes, nursing cappuccinos.

She’s stowing a notepad in her apron when the doorbell chimes and a woman walks in alone. She’s blonde and such a familiar face that Della can’t shake the strange feeling that washes over her. Who was this stranger?

Gabriella seats her in Della’s section, which is threadbare, and when her face becomes clearer, Della feels as if she throw up and faint all at once.

 _Nina_.

The woman from Tom’s home a few days back. It is as if some god is laughing at her somewhere, reveling in her misery. Why tonight? Why _her_ s section?

Her feet move her over to the booth slowly and she draws the notepad from her apron slowly. Seeing her beautiful face, she feels certain sympathy for this woman. She’s been lied to as well. She devoted her heart for a man who stomped on it.

“Hi. Welcome to Luigi’s. I’m Madeline. Can I bring you something to drink while you have a look over our menu?”

She’s rehearsed.

“No. I came to talk to _you_ , Della.”

Her heart stops and she goes white as a sheet.

“Can you sit?” she asks after a while. Della is tempted to claw her eyes out. How dare she? Has Tom told Nina about her? Why would he do that?

“No. I’m working,” she responds coldly.

“I’m Emma Hiddleston,” she ignores her stance, “I’m Tom’s sister.”

“I’m sorry, are you ready to order?”

Again, she ignores him.

“In 2012 a woman called Nina Hawthorne sought my brother out and _stalked_ him. She was taking his literature course and become totally mad for him. Apparently, you’re not the first student to fall in love with him.”

To that, Della nearly falls over with indignation and horror.

“Anyway, he bloody moved in order to shake the loon, but she continued to seek him out. He got a restraining order in America… she’d shown up on the registry at his class. Fucking insane. Her father came to the states and brought her back to England, but she still wrote to him and sent gifts all the time. I told him that he needed to turn her in for violating the order, but he never did.”

The earth literally felt as if it was spinning. All of the information this woman—Emma, was giving her made her feel like her head was going to explode.

“He never told me…”

Emma scoffed.

“It’s not like Tom to burden the people he loves with things that would potentially hurt them. His own family didn’t even find out about that bloody psycho until he had to go to the authorizes. She almost destroyed his reputation. I think my dear brother labored under the delusion that if he kept quiet, than it would all just disappear.”

“ _Idiot_ ,” Della mutters softly. Emma chuckled.

“Will you sit now?”

She looks around for any reason to keep standing—new customer, existing customer—nothing appeared to stop her from having this conversation with Tom’s sister. Cautiously, she slides into the booth and looked at the woman. She analyzes her features against Tom’s and notes small similarities. His family possesses remarkably good genes. She folds up her hands neatly.

“My brother is in _love with you_.” She enunciates as if she imagines Della needs to hear it slowly. “When he came back, I knew right away that something was off, but thought it was just the stress of the move. Then when you showed up the other night, he broke down and told me what happened. You crushed him.”

“I—“

“Wait… I’m not done.” Emma’s tone was fierce. Della’s mouth automatically closed, “I don’t condone what happened between the both of you. If that affair would have gone public, he would have lost everything he worked hard for. I know that he is to blame on equal measure, but it was still stupid and risky.”

“I love him,” Della explains, her voice small and tortured.

The start of what appears to be a small smile appears on Emma’s lips.

“Yeah? How come you’ve never told him that?”

Della feels another surge of indignance. Just how much of their relationship has he shared with his sister? She feels a little queasy for a moment. She feels her face burn bright red and she secretly wishes that Fio or Vinny would call her to the kitchen to help with _something_.

“I don’t know,” she answers softly. It’s the truth, and Emma knows that. She rests back against the cushion of the booth. “I’ve ruined everything.”

The other woman rolls her eyes.

“No you haven’t. Trust me, if he didn’t still want you, he wouldn’t have waited here for _hours_ two days in a row and begged your boss for your information.”

“God,” she breathes.

“You need to tell him. What if one of you dropped off the planet tomorrow and you’d never told him the way he makes you feel? I’ve got intuition about you, Della. I can tell that you’re not like most girls and despite all of this coy shit you’re giving off right now, you’re actually a viper. That’s probably what has Tom so _smitten_.”

“I hurt him.”

“He’ll get over it. He just wants you.”

Silence hung thick in the air.

“Come with me, Della. Make this right.”

She doesn’t think. She just stands and unties her apron.

She’d going to get Tom back.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Emma drives her. The ride is silent and allows her time to process all that she has learned in the past thirty minutes. She feels so disconnected to the man that loved her. She’d been unfair and left him when she was high on rage and sadness.

It makes her rethink her decision to go to him. Maybe he is better off with someone else.

They arrive on the familiar street of posh houses and Emma pulls up onto the curb. She puts her car into park and turns to look at Della. Her expression is softer than before, but it is still unnerving to her.

“Go ahead. I’ll stay here until you knock. I get the vibe that you’re a slippery one, Della.” She winks and Della gives her a half-hearted smile. “If things go well, you won’t be leaving tonight.”

The thought of making love to Tom again warms her entire body and made the hairs on her arms stand up in anticipation. More than anything she wants to feel the security of his embrace. Tom makes her feel safe. No one has ever accomplished that before.

“Emma—thanks. I don’t know what to say or how to explain myself. I wish we would have met under different circumstances.”

She gives her a tender smile and it is the first time that Della truly sees the resemblance in Emma and Tom. It’s in the way their eyes wrinkle up so sweetly.

“T’s happiness is worth the world. We’ll meet again soon.”

There is no more stalling. It is time to go. She feels the butterflies swarm around her stomach in a storm of nerves. This is so cliché. The separation has been so long and she forgets so many significant things. Apart of her wonders if she remembers his smell. She wants to burry her nose deep in the niche in his neck and commit it to memory. She wonders if he’ll allow that. She just wants to _linger_.

Emma is still hanging by the curb as she approaches the door. Della closes her eyes and knocks, her breath stuck in her chest. She can hear commotion right away. Maybe he’s been waiting on food or something. Her heart pounds so hard inside of her chest that she thinks she might faint right there on his doorstep.

Then he is there, standing in doorway, wearing a pair of jeans and his favorite black cardigan, glasses perched on his face. His expression is surprised; much like it was earlier in the week when she showed up with food. This time, though, there is something different there.

“Hi.”

“Della… Del…” he repeats, not sure of what else to say. Emma has driven off, “was that my sister?” he seems as if he is in a daze.

“It was. She can be terrifying, Tom.” Della tries to use humor to lighten the mood. It doesn’t distract him from the current disbelief that he is lingering in. He stares at her, drinking in her image. She is wearing the same shirt she wore earlier in the week, this time paired with jeans and sneakers. She looks young and something about that makes him feel incredibly unsettled.

“You’re here.”

“I am.”

“Emma came to you?”

“Yes.” Della’s monosyllabic responses came automatically. “Can I come inside?”

“What? Oh! Yes—yes, please.” He steps out of the way and guides her in, unconsciously settling a hand on the small of her back, causing her to jump. He retracted suddenly as if her clothing had caught fire and mumbles an apology. He shuts the door and the click echoes through the foyer. His feet are bare. She notices them because she’s staring at the ground. They’re at a stalemate at the front door and Della feels overwhelmed.

“I was unfair.”

“You were.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“I know.”

“Can we sit and talk?”

“I’ll make tea.”

For the longest time that Tom has still held hope close to his heart, he has imagined this moment over and over; being reunited with Della. Perhaps it is his love of drama that leads him to expect fireworks and his little woman falling into his arms, face drenched in tears, but in retrospect, knowing just who Della is, he realizes that she is a soul against the grain and things will never be so easy and predictable with her.

His hands shake as he prepares a kettle. He’s nervous about what is to come. Peaking over his shoulder, he sees her seated quietly at the table where his books are strew about, little markers in the spine where he plans on incorporating bits into his lessons. That was what he was hard at work on before he got the knock on his door.

“Here we are,” he says after a few more minutes, settling a tray in a bare spot on the table. She eyes him skeptically as he starts to pour her a cup, and puts in just the perfect amount of milk to please her.

“Thank you,”

Once he is settled in beside her, he looks up expectantly, silently asking her to start the conversation.

“Emma stopped by Luigi’s and told me all about that woman.” Della’s brows crease, “why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I thought I was keeping you safe,” he admits feebly, blue eyes never breaking away from her. “I thought that if I never said a word about Nina that she would disappear for good. You know… I didn’t want to feed the fire.”

“Why did you keep those letters?”

“Evidence of her breaking the restraining order,” Tom pushes his cup away, and plants his palms gently on the table top, looking down at the wood for answers. “You were the best thing to happen to me and I knew inviting the notion of Nina into that was asking for trouble. She would have done something insane.”

“Tom…”

“You were going through so much, baby.”

She shuts her eyes at the term of endearment, always so natural to Tom, and new to her. It’s been so long since she has been his baby that tears flood her eyes and she knows that it is only a matter of time before they begin to leak down her face and so she quickly uses her hands to shield her emotion from his view.

She hears his chair creak as his moves, and it is accompanied by his soft, gentle voice as he whispers,

“No, no, no, my girl. Please don’t try and hide from me.”

His hands carefully capture her wrists and pull her hands away from her face, reveling the sweet tracks of saline that hurts his heart to see. He doesn’t make a move to wipe them away or say anything else. Instead he remains in place and continues to hold her hands, thumbs brushing tenderly against the insides of her palms, trying to sooth her as she finally feels the brunt of their reconnect.

“I’m sorry,” she hiccups softly. “I was so selfish and I can’t imagine how it must have made you feel.”

He laughs softly.

“Quite like the way it made you feel, I am sure… Del, I’d really like to hold you now.”

It doesn’t take anything else before she is nestled against Tom, tucked into his body as if it was her second home. He surrounds her and it feels so good. He is holding her tightly. He tries to re-commit every part of her to his memory. She’s silent as he rocks her, and doesn’t feel the tears fall from his face onto the crown of her head.

“I love you,” she whispers. “I _really_ love you.”

A sound escapes his mouth that can only be described as a groan of agony and relief mingled together. If it is possible, he holds her even tighter and presses his lips down on her head, his teeth scraping the scalp.

This moment feels like it did the first time he held her in the kitchen the morning after they first made love. He’d been so emotional then, blurring the lines before sex and intimacy. It had made Della believe that there was more to Tom than what she’d originally imagined. Despite how fucked up she was, he cared about her, and for that, she loves him. And after finally coming to terms with the love, now she wants to repeat it over and over and continue to tell him how good he makes her feel and how badly she wants him.

She doesn’t remember the exact moment that they travelled from the kitchen into the lounge, but soon she is falling asleep against his chest while he runs the palm of his hands down her back, her hair loose from the ponytail that it was in earlier. He is staring at his bookcase and hoping that he isn’t dreaming. He’s dreamed of her each night since he’s saw her earlier in the week. Mostly he’s just imagined what _this_ would feel like once more—having her so close.

“There is so much I want to know…” he whispers to her. “I want to hear all about your firsts in London.”

Tom rubs his nose against her chin and huddles her shoulders closer against himself.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” she admits sleepily, “I want to have a nap first. Is that ok?”

Tom sighs in contentment,

“You’re perfect, Della girl.”

 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

She sleeps and so does he. He never realized just how restless he’d been since she has been absent, but tonight, drifting off with Della so close seems effortless. He has a lot of work to do to prepare for his classes, but right now he can’t think of anything more important than the nap he’s having with the woman that he loves.

He wakes before she does and orders take-away. Indian. Something he knows she likes and isn’t surrounded by every day at work. Then he goes back to sorting through his books and waits patiently for the food to arrive and for Della to finally wake.

It doesn’t take long for either to happen. Soon the doorbell sounds and mumbling comes from the lounge where a mop of brown hair is popping up just as Tom crosses through. He chuckles at how disoriented she is, and nearly leans down to kiss her just then, but swiftly decides not to. He wants the first kiss they share in London to be as magnificent as the first one they shared in America.

He pays the deliveryman and brings the bags of food into the living room where Della was now sitting upright, her shoes and sweater missing from her body. Her eyes are filled with the dredge of sleep and she looks so beautiful and familiar that he wants to strip every layer of clothing from her body until she is bare to his eyes. He misses her nudity and the way her skin always burned against his.  It was pure fact that their sexual compatibility was beyond anything he’d ever experienced before her. Naturally there was no after. He’d been far too hung up over the loss to even conjure any thoughts about getting back into the dating world. He’d also never truly given up hope that he’d meet her again.

“Hello, sleepyhead.”

“Hi,” she smiles dreamily and scoots her bottom off of the sofa so that she is seated in front of the coffee table in front of it. It reminds him of the first meal they shared together in his office many months back. “That smells good,”

“Best in the area,” he beams at her. “I hope you’re ok with my uncivilized ways. I don’t really feel up to a washing up afterward.”

“Since when have I minded?” Della posses with an arched brow.

He pauses a moment, his busy hands stilling as he observes her.

“You’re beautiful,

“Stop,” she brushes off.

He sighs softly and catches her hand as she reaches out for a container of food.

“Della…. Before we get into this, we need to talk.” Tom pauses and shuts his eyes, “Things are going to be different. I’m not just fucking you and going to wait for you to open up to me. I love you and I want to be your man,”

“You once told me that you couldn’t be my man,”

“When I was tempering my feelings to fit what you needed at the time. I’m not catering to you like that anymore. I realize that what you need is crude honesty. Della, I’m in love with you… the kind of love that surpasses the typical first love blushing and kisses in the rain. I want everything that accompanies you, darling. Happiness, sadness, pain, triumph…. _everything_.”

“I want those things, too. Tom. I just don’t know how. I haven’t done this before. I haven’t participated in this sort of relationship before.”

His liquidy blue eyes soften at her admission.

“We’ll learn together, Del.”

They ate in comparable silence, the previous conversation weighing heavily on both of them. Tom was thinking about the shot that they had. They could start over from scratch and start everything fresh. He wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted that, though. His memories with Della were something engrained into his  mind and some of the best ones in his life. He didn’t want to forget the woman that he’d first fucked and then slowly fell in love with. He wants to remember the nights that she allowed him to comfort her—the painstaking process of peeling back her layers and learning who she was. He can’t part with that.

Della’s mind is on a similar track. She wonders how her new life in London will change the dynamics that she and Tom shared before. They will no longer be breaking ethical code. They won’t have to hide out or pretend not to want to tear each other’s clothes off in the streets. He is completely hers, and available for kissing whenever she should like.

A lone giggle passes through her lips and her curious boyfriend glances up at her with mirth in his eyes.

“What?”

“You can finally take me on a date.”

“We’ve had dates!” he argues indignantly, most likely remembering all of the dinners he’s cooked her throughout their tryst.

“Those don’t count. I want you to kiss me in line at the movies,”

“Cinema, darling,” he corrects softly, “We’ll make a proper brit out of you in no time,”

She grins and stands, prepared to help him get rid of the debris from their meal.

“I just want to be able to go into public with you and hold your hand,”

“Are you demoting me from a kisser to a measly hand holder, Del?”

“Hush, you.”

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

He gives her a tour of his home afterward, including the garden.

It’s in the  chilly moonlight that she laces her fingers through the curls at his neck and pulls his lips down to her own. Della knows Tom and knows that he is a romantic man. She wants to give him romance. That first kiss was filled with so much unspoken emotion that it exhausts her.

As he carries her to his bedroom, her arms wrapped around his neck and legs around his waist, she can’t help but feel the need to be physically intimate with him despite her exhaustion. She wants to be bare with him and connect on that level that only they can.

They shower together. Tom strips her down to nothing and presses gentle, hollow kisses over her soft skin, and then undresses himself. They step into the shower and share the scalding hot water. It’s very intimate and holds a meaning that goes deeper than sex. There is arousal, but that need is accompanied by peace.

He’s tender. He washes her body carefully, making sure to attend to her with such care that when it is her turn, she frets over him. There are slow kisses in between, tongues dancing, desire growing. Tom cups her cheek and smiles at her silently. It pierces her heart, and she can’t help the tears that blur with the flow of water from the showerhead. He pulls her into his arms and dances slowly, his chin resting atop of her head.

When they leave the shower, they dry off and then make their way to bed. Tom pushes Della down gently and a soft moan escapes her mouth as both of his hands come up to part her thighs. She’s gleaming wet, and he groans softly himself, realizing that he’s done this to her.

“I’m going to eat you, Della girl,” he murmurs in a low voice that is masked with deep affection and lust. He does not wait. He buries his face straight into her soaking cunt and rejoices in the scream that echoes through the bedroom. His tongue drags up and down in a torturous place that has Della wriggling in place and panting. Her thighs tense as she try to reach orgasm.

He doesn’t deprive her. He wants to make up for months of absence. He sucks her clit mercilessly and she cries out, her fingers finding his hair and pulling as hard as she could as the coil in her belly snapped and she spiraled out of control.

He held her down as she bucked out of control, continuing to lick her until she was limp in his arms.

She was mute for the next few moments as he kissed his way up her body, finally finding her lips once more. He was chaste and soft. Della could feel his erection straining against her thigh. She moans and lifts her hips upward, silently pleading for him.

Tom guides himself into her and nearly goes blind with pleasure. She’s tight and warm. Her body welcomes him gladly. He moves inside of her, trying to relish this moment, remembering the last time that they were together. He’d been haunted by the memories of their last intimate moments together.

This was different.

“Tom—Tom,” she cries her eyes shutting as she moved with him.

“Open your eyes, Della!” he demands.

Brown eyes fix on blue eyes and Tom’s body tightens and in a moment of blind pleasure, he pours into her. He can hear her screams for him distantly. She’s convulsing and cums against his cock.

They come down from their high long enough to clean up. Tom feels an immaculate calm rush over him. He feels sated in everyway, most of all _emotionally_. He spoons her, his arms covering her breasts, her fragrant wet hair plastered against his shoulder and chest.

The last thing he hears before drifting off to sleep are words that he never thought would come from her sweet mouth.

“I love you, Tom.”

He sleeps. He’s content.

Della _loves_ him.

 


End file.
